


chase the clouds away; wait for that first light

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 30 Day Linear Challenge, Age Difference, Coach/Player Relationship, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Institutionalized Homophobia, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pazzolivo friendship, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-14 08:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 27,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16489061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: Their relationship has two beginnings: the first one starts when Riccardo moves from Caravaggio to Atalanta Academy at the ripe age of eight; the second one begins some 15 years later, when Riccardo first realizes he might be in deep shit (or just in love, if you want to be romantic like that).





	1. First impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me reaching for the impossible by starting two lists at once! Never let it be said my goals aren’t set high enough.
> 
> Companion piece to [Everything There is to Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552164), which I still consider one of the best fics I’ve ever written. Works also as a standalone, I guess? Covers the time frame from the death of Prandelli’s wife all the way to recent years: first 5 parts will parallel the original story, after which we’ll be in uncharted territory.

Riccardo can’t remember the first time he met Cesare.

He knows it happened soon after he started training at the academy, and Cesare’s told him he had scraped his knees and needed help with the band-aids, but Riccardo has no recollection of the incident whatsoever. He was a clumsy kid, he scraped his knees three times a week, minimum.

As far as he’s concerned, Cesare has always just been a part of his life: a mentor, a coach, a friend… Just like you wouldn’t have a first impression of your immediate family, Riccardo has no idea what it was that made Cesare so special to him all those years ago. Special enough that the eight-year-old Riccardo would deem it necessary to follow him around like a lost duckling until Cesare accepted his fate as Riccardo’s favourite person in the whole universe.

Cesare has meant everything to Riccardo as long as he can remember.

And yet, all it takes is a slight push in the right (wrong) direction, for Riccardo to realize that his ‘everything’ is barely enough to scrape the surface.

All it takes is one smile from Cesare – it’s the first time Riccardo has seen him genuinely smile since his wife passed away – and Riccardo is left with an empty ache where his heart is supposed to be. He aches because in that one terrifying moment, it becomes crystal clear that he wants to be the reason for that smile.

Riccardo is barely 23 years of age – just a child, no matter what he keeps insisting to Cesare – and he’s aching for a man he’s known and loved longer than he can remember.

Unlike their first meeting, this moment will forever stick to his memory, as the time when he first started seeing Cesare not as part of his own extended self, but as an entirely separate being: a man whose smile is enough to halt Riccardo’s heart from beating; a man for whose happiness Riccardo would gladly sacrifice his entire life; a man who Riccardo would follow all the way to the end of the fucking world; a man who Riccardo knows will never feel the same way about him.

In that one moment Riccardo’s heart swells with love and breaks into tiny pieces all at the same time. And once the moment is gone, Cesare is still there, smiling sadly at Riccardo, and Riccardo is still there to offer him a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, and a word of comfort even when he might not need it.

And that’s more than enough, because it’s all he’s ever going to get from Cesare.


	2. First conversation

Just like most people, Riccardo cannot recall many details from his childhood.

He remembers important events and has the general idea of his childhood being happy and safe. That feeling of safety can be traced back to Cesare, that much Riccardo can say with certainty, even if he can’t quite grasp the memories that lead to this conclusion.

There were many firsts, when it came to Cesare: he was the first to ask if Riccardo was being bullied (he wasn’t, at least not when Cesare first asked him); he was the first adult in Riccardo’s life to take his worries seriously (no matter how silly or unimportant); he was the first person (and the only one, for the longest time) who Riccardo told he liked boys.

That last conversation is the only one he can actually remember – it was right before Cesare moved away from Bergamo, so that particular time period has carved itself into Riccardo’s memory, something he doesn’t want to remember so _of course_ he does – the rest he just knows happened at some point, unable to pinpoint the exact time or conversation.

Then there’s another childhood conversation he suddenly recalls, probably 15 years after the fact, with vivid clarity.

Riccardo is tipsy on expensive red wine and feeling daring with his newly discovered feelings for Cesare, and maybe that’s what brings the ages old memory back to surface.

He remembers the cold winter frost that made him shiver in the First Team training grounds, he remembers Cesare’s indulgent laughter and berating tone that didn’t quite reach his warm eyes, he remembers not understanding what he was being told but still drinking up every word.

_“How’d you know she was the one?”_

_“Trust me, you’ll know.”_

Riccardo has long since grown out of the idea that _the one_ even exists. Or maybe they exist only for certain people, like Manuela existed for Cesare.

Cesare is right there, sorting through his late wife’s belongings, talking about her in such loving tone that it makes Riccardo want to cry, because Cesare doesn’t deserve any of this. He shouldn’t have to sort through the painful memories with only a silly kid like Riccardo for moral support.

If Riccardo was given a choice to trade places with her, to bring Manuela back to Cesare, he would take it without hesitation.

But there’s no choice to make, and Manuela is still dead, and Cesare is still devastated, so Riccardo does the only thing he can.

“I asked you once how you knew she was the one.” Cesare probably doesn’t even remember, just like Riccardo didn’t, not before just now. He was just a kid, thinking silly kid thoughts, and Cesare has no reason to remember something like that. “You told me I’d know when I met the right person.” _It’s you. It’s always been you._ “You were lucky to have her.”

Riccardo might say something more, but he cannot recall the exact words afterwards. He recalls only Cesare apologizing to him – why is he apologizing, can’t he see Riccardo is doing this all because he wants to, because he loves Cesare and can’t stand the idea of him suffering alone? – and he remembers Cesare kissing his forehead and holding him for the longest time.

That night marks the first of many conversations where Riccardo consciously chooses not to burden Cesare with the knowledge of his feelings. It feels weird, not being honest with Cesare for the first time in his young life, but he knows it’s also necessary.

He can’t choose to take Manuela’s place, to bring her back; but he can choose to stay, to take care of Cesare, to love him without wanting for anything in return, as long as Cesare will have him.


	3. Getting to know each other

Despite their long history – or maybe because of it – there’s always been a strict line they don’t cross.

Cesare has always been a mentor and a coach for Riccardo before he’s been a friend. There’s always been the club hierarchy to follow, and that means there’s always been things they don’t know about each other.

It’s only in the wake of Manuela’s death that those lines start to blur. Suddenly the tables have turned, and Riccardo is the strong one, helping Cesare find his footing in a world that looks utterly unfamiliar to him, a world without the love of his life in it.

They find themselves talking about things they never shared before.

Cesare talks a lot about Manuela, of course, but as the time passes by – days, weeks, months, a year – he also begins opening up about his hopes for the future, for his children’s future, and about his plans to do something good, something that will make a difference. Something Manuela had always pushed him to do but he never did.

“I wish I could do something more for young players like you: you shouldn’t need to hide who you are from the world just because you’re playing professionally.”

Riccardo smiles sadly at the comment, because they both know it’s decades too early to even talk about football without homophobia. Riccardo is used to hiding and keeping secrets, it’s like a second nature to him.

Riccardo also talks about his dreams: he wants to play for the national team, he wants to be a captain, he wants to play for a big team and win the Scudetto and the Champions League and the World Cup, and then after he’s done all that, he wants to maybe become a coach, just like Cesare.

He also reveals other things, things he’s never told anyone before now: how he wants a big family even though he knows he will never have it; how he sometimes wishes he could just date women because it would be so much easier; how he’s afraid he will never become a person worthy of happiness and success.

“You already are that person. You deserve the world, Riccardo.”

When Cesare says it, Riccardo can almost believe it.


	4. Arguing

When Riccardo first hears Cesare is leaving Fiorentina, he feels angry and betrayed.

It doesn’t help that he’s forced to read about it in the papers, after not hearing from Cesare for over a week. The season is over, Riccardo is maybe going to South Africa with the national team, and Cesare is leaving him without any warning.

Riccardo is livid, but at the same time he berates himself for feeling like that, because Cesare has every right to change jobs, and he’s under no obligation to ask for Riccardo’s permission beforehand.

He tells himself it’s not that bad, because Cesare will be with the national team, and the national team trains in Florence, so really, he’s not going anywhere. It’s selfish of Riccardo to act like it’s about him, when Cesare’s life is his own and Riccardo has no claim to it.

And yet, he still finds himself standing behind Cesare’s door, ready to yell at him for keeping it a secret, for not contacting Riccardo before the news hit the papers. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, forcing back the tears of frustration and mentally berating himself for acting like a child.

By the time he rings the doorbell, he’s burned through most of his anger, so all he’s left with is hurt and exhaustion.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question falls flat with no actual fight behind it. Tears are burning his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall, and Cesare is so gentle and apologetic that Riccardo almost forgets he’s supposed to be angry at him.

It’s been two years since Riccardo realized he had feelings for Cesare. Two years since something shifted in their relationship and they became friends first and everything else after. And during those two years, Riccardo has never let himself slip up – he’s always put Cesare’s wellbeing ahead of his own, ignored how much his heart keeps aching when Cesare hugs him or smiles because of him, told himself it’s enough for him if Cesare is happy.

But now, when Riccardo sits on Cesare’s couch aching for a fight brought on by hurt and confusion, Riccardo finds himself slipping. He allows Cesare to convince him that it’s all good, that they will see each other with the national team and in between international breaks because Cesare will still be here, he’s not going anywhere from Riccardo’s life.

In a moment of madness Riccardo forgets himself and says what he’s really thinking, confesses the feelings he’s been holding so close to his chest for two years. He’s never felt as vulnerable as he feels right there, confronting Cesare with the truth.

“I wanted to be there. It’s all I’ve ever wanted: to be important to you.”

What follows is all a blur: a gentle brush of lips on lips, a sudden but short-lived rush of excitement, followed by a hurried and ingenuine apology, a quietly closed door, and the tears of panic and confusion that don’t seem to stop.

Riccardo doesn’t think he can ever face Cesare again, not when their friendship is forever tarnished with the knowledge of Riccardo’s feelings. Does Cesare think Riccardo helped him only to get closer to him, to take advantage of his grief and pain? Riccardo feels ashamed of himself, for being so selfish.

Riccardo finds himself wishing he had started that argument he had been itching for, because apologizing for childish pettiness would be so much easier than apologizing for this, whatever _this_ is.

He goes to South Africa without talking to Cesare, to take part in the forgettable tournament that he can’t bring himself to enjoy. It’s _World Cup_ , he’s fulfilling his lifelong dream, but all he can think of is the man he left behind in Italy.

(It registers only much later that it was Cesare who kissed him first.)


	5. Making up afterwards

Riccardo has plenty of time to think about what he’s going to say to Cesare on the flight back to Italy – 20 hours of it, during which he doesn’t sleep a wink.

There’s a part of him that wants to go back to his parents’ house in Caravaggio and hide from the inevitable confrontation for a few more weeks, because apparently almost a month on another continent is not long enough to steel himself for the rejection he knows is coming.

But Cesare is going to be coaching the national team come next autumn, and Riccardo has no intention of giving up his newly established place on the team anytime soon, even if he might deserve it after their shitty tournament. He needs to figure this out.

He comes up with a hundred and one ways to brush off the ill-timed kiss as a mistake, as a joke, as a spur of a moment thing that meant nothing.

_But it did._

The idea of being honest crosses through his mind, but he dismisses it immediately.

But it was Cesare who kissed him, not the other way around, Riccardo’s subconscious chases the argument.

How are you supposed to apologize for something you didn’t even do?

“Chin up kid, there’s nothing we can do about it anymore,” Buffon tells him when they land at the Malpensa Airport. It takes Riccardo a second to remember he’s talking about the World Cup, not Cesare.

Riccardo wants to hate Cesare for ruining the highlight of his career so far, but at the same time he knows they did it all on their own – Cesare may have distracted Riccardo, but he didn’t force them to play like shit.

His brother is there to pick him up, to take him home, but instead, Riccardo asks him to take him to the train station with the unwarranted courage brought on by lack of sleep and 20 hours of mulling over his options.

He catches a train to Florence, hiding behind large sunglasses and even larger newspaper. There’s a photo of Cannavaro and Lippi on the cover, but Riccardo is lucky enough not to have his own teary face plastered in the headlines. He was a player of no consequence, no one cares if he cried after the final whistle – or why he cried, for that matter.

Standing behind Cesare’s door, he feels like an ill-fated heroine of some classic tragedy, one of those stories where the girl doesn’t get the boy, and everyone’s dead by the end, anyways. His mind is full of excuses, reasons why they shouldn’t even try, ways to put things back the way they were.

Cesare opens the door and he looks as exhausted as Riccardo is feeling – and not just feeling: judging by the way Cesare looks at him, he probably also looks like death warmed over.

Standing face to face with Cesare, after a month of radio silence, all the excuses fly away from Riccardo’s mind. All he’s left with is the truth, and at that moment, he’s too tired to remember why it’s not a viable solution.

“I want you.” He wants to take care of Cesare, and he wants Cesare to take care of him in return. “You told me I’d know.” He knows, holy shit, does he _know_. “And I  _do_ , even if it took me years to realize it. I want it to be you, Cesare.” He loves Cesare and it’s all that really matters, in the end.

Riccardo is panicking inwardly, filling the oppressive silence with senseless babble, and Cesare just _stands_ there, looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. Riccardo feels like he’s about to choke, a piece in his throat blocking his airways and making it hard to breathe. He wants to run away and hide forever, somewhere where Cesare will not find him. He forces himself to stay put.

And then Cesare is touching his cheek, saying something Riccardo’s mind is not quite registering. He looks so lost, as lost as Riccardo has been feeling ever since he left this same apartment a month ago.

“What do you want, Cesare?” Riccardo needs to ask. He’s come too far to back down now. The words come out choked and not even loud enough to be considered a whisper, but at least he’s said it. The ball is with Cesare now, and he’s free to do whatever he wants with it.

Riccardo trusts him enough to give him his heart, trusts him not to break it too badly.

“I never thought it’d be you.” A hesitant whisper, just a tad louder than Riccardo’s question.

Riccardo kisses Cesare, and this time Cesare doesn’t push him away.


	6. A night out with friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I'm using the Italian word _Mister_ (coach) in the dialogue when it's used more as a nickname rather than a general term.

The first Azzurri training camp after the World Cup.

The first Azzurri training camp since Cesare took over the national team.

The first Azzurri training camp since Riccardo and Cesare became an item.

For Riccardo it’s exciting, to be back with the national team – together with Giampi and Gila, too, out of all the people who could have been called up – and to be coached by Cesare again.

But at the same time, it’s terrifying, because it’s their first real challenge as a couple: they will have to survive the whole training camp and Euro qualifiers without revealing the nature of their relationship to anyone else in the squad.

It’s not only about hiding their sexuality – although that is a big part of it, for sure, since they both know there are people on the national team staff and squad who would not hesitate to out them – it’s also about setting up boundaries, because Riccardo is not about ask for any special treatment just because he happens to be sleeping with their new coach.

They need to get through this, to prove themselves it’s possible to have a romantic relationship without disrupting the professional one.

It becomes apparent from the first moments in Coverciano that there’s been another shift in their player-coach dynamics, because they’re both hyperaware of each other and of all the ways they might blow their cover.

Riccardo needs to bite his lips together to stop himself from returning Cesare’s usual jokes with his own, and he keeps his eyes trained to the ground to hide the affectionate look he knows must shine from his face miles away. He can’t even go and hug Cesare like he might have done only a few months ago, because it’s _painful_ not to be able to touch him like he wants to.

“This is great, just like old times,” Giampi pipes in, throwing one arm around Riccardo’s shoulder and the other around Gila’s. He grins knowingly at Riccardo. “Though I’m sure Ricky would’ve preferred keeping _Mister_ in Viola, huh?”

Riccardo forces a casual laugh from his lips, shrugging his shoulders under Giampi’s hold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Coach Prandelli deserves this chance. I’m sure he’s gonna be great.”

Giampi raises his eyebrows at him sceptically but says nothing.

Riccardo has often wondered why he hasn’t told his best friend – one-time crush – about his sexuality. He knows for a fact Giampi wouldn’t mind even if he knew; they’ve known each other far too long to let something as minor as sexual orientation to pull them apart. But he can’t tell him now, because if Giampi knew about Riccardo, he would find out about Cesare too, because Riccardo has never been able to keep secrets from him – aside from the obvious one, of course.

“You can tell he’s missing _Mister_ at practice,” Gila shares his own input with a soft chuckle and ruffles Riccardo’s hair. Riccardo hates being treated like a kid: he’s the captain of his club, the captain of _Gila_ , thanks for asking. “He keeps giving these forlorn looks toward the offices, like expecting Prandelli to walk out any minute.”

“Shut up,” Riccardo grumbles and ducks out from Giampi’s half-embrace. “You’re horrible friends and I don’t wanna talk to you anymore.” He pokes out his tongue in response to Giampi’s fake exclamations of distress.

The training he can still survive, since he has his teammates distracting him from Cesare’s proximity, but he’s not so lucky when it comes to the team dinner in the evening, on the eve of their match against Estonia.

At dinner, they’re all sitting in two long tables, sharing stories and giving speeches in the name of team building. As the luck would have it, Riccardo is seated only a few chairs from Cesare, which makes it doubly hard to pretend he doesn’t want to walk over to him and just kiss him in front of everyone.

It’s still so new to him, to be able to show his affection without the constant fear of rejection. That’s probably also the reason why he’s having such hard time coping with the forced distance between them, even if it’s been just a few days since the training camp started.

He leaves his seat as soon as the more official part of the evening draws close, joining Giampi in the other end of the table instead. The other players are moving too, forming their usual cliques around the dining room.

“So, you ready to be honest with me?” Giampi asks impishly, just when Riccardo thinks he’s safe for the night. “What’s up with you and Prandelli? Did you have an argument or something?”

Riccardo looks over at Cesare who’s laughing at something Pirlo just said. He meets Riccardo’s eyes only for a fraction of a second, but it’s all it takes for Riccardo’s heart to start aching again.

How is it even possible to miss someone when they’re right there?

“Earth to Ricky!” Giampi pokes his side with an indulgent laugh, drawing Riccardo’s attention back to him.

Riccardo forces a nonchalant shrug, giving the only explanation he can, “It’s nothing. What’s so wrong with acting professional?”

“Who do you take me for?” Giampi rolls his eyes, obviously not buying the comment. Damn Giampi for knowing him so well. “I mean c’mon, there’s nothing professional when it comes to you and Prandelli. I’ve spent years listening to your gushing: Cesare this, Cesare that, _Mister_ is so great, _Mister_ can walk on water, _Mister_ told me— Hell, you couldn’t be more obvious even if you jumped up and professed your undying love to him right here and now!”

Riccardo must be beet red, Giampi’s joke hitting far too close to home. He wants to deny everything, but then he takes one look at Cesare over the table and he can’t bring himself to lie, because Giampi is absolutely right.

He can tell the exact moment when everything clicks in Giampi’s brain – or more precisely, he could have told it even if Giampi didn’t drop his wine glass with a shatter of breaking glass, only to be drowned out by his sudden exclamation, “Holy shit, Ricky!”

Until now, they’ve been left alone by most of their teammates, but Giampi’s outburst is enough to attract the whole room’s attention at once. Riccardo can only guess what’s going on in his best friend’s head, but he’s hoping against hope that Giampi will have enough tact not to voice any of it.

“Sorry, nothing to see here!” Giampi tells their audience with a sheepish grin, clapping a hand on Riccardo’s shoulder. There’s a waitress cleaning up the shards of glass already. “I just still can’t believe this idiot got the captain’s armband before I did.”

Only when the people around them have gone back to their own conversations, does Giampi bring up the topic again, his voice a low murmur now, careful not to attract any unwanted attention. “So, you and—” Giampi jerks his head toward the other end of the table. “It’s an actual thing? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We’re keeping a low profile. For _obvious_ reasons.” Riccardo bites his lip, stealing a glance at Cesare before meeting Giampi’s eyes. Giampi seems surprisingly put together considering he just found out his best friend is gay and dating their coach twice his age. “You’re taking this awfully well. Where’s the catch?”

“No catches here.” Giampi grins at Riccardo affectionately, “It makes sense, really. As I said, you’ve been _very obvious_ about it. If you know what to look for.”

“I really hope it’s just you, though…” Riccardo lets out a heavy sigh, giving a wary glance around the dining room. It’s a relief, to have someone to talk to after such a long time of hiding, but at the same time he knows it’s a risk.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it’s just me.” Giampi throws an arm around Riccardo’s shoulders and pecks his cheek playfully. “Your secret’s safe with me, Ricky.”

Riccardo leans his head on Giampi’s shoulder, suddenly feeling exhausted. He just wants to go back to his room and hide there until tomorrow’s match. He searches Cesare’s gaze through the room, offering him a tired smile when their eyes meet. Cesare raises his eyebrows just a little, like wordlessly asking if he’s alright.

“Just so you know,” Giampi’s words interrupt the silent discussion they’re having with only their eyes, “you’d probably be safe even if you kept clinging to him every chance you got. It’s not like it’s something we all haven’t seen already.”

“I _do not_ cling,” Riccardo protest with an undignified snort. Giampi is laughing at him again. “But thanks for the tip. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Maybe it won’t be so bad, having an actual ally on the national team.


	7. Doing something stupid

Cesare picks Riccardo up from San Siro after Fiorentina faces Milan in the league in late November.

They know it’s risky, meeting up in public like this. But on the other hand, Cesare’s been travelling all around Italy for the last three weeks, scouting new talents that might be deserving a call up for the national team, so at this point it’s a question of meeting up like this, or not meeting up at all.

So, Riccardo leaves his team behind and heads for the VIP parking area with his carry-on bag. They have two whole days before Riccardo needs to be back in Florence for training.

It’s dark and rainy as he exits the stadium, the cool autumn weather reminding him of the approaching winter. In no time at all, it will be Christmas and then the new year, with new challenges awaiting them.

At the same time, the summer seems so far away: it feels like an eternity since they could spend whole days just lying in Cesare’s bed, figuring each other out with each touch and each kiss, learning anew how their bodies work, together.

Riccardo misses those first two months, when they could just focus on each other instead of the world surrounding them, stuck in their own fantasy world where everything was new and amazing.

But at the same time, he loves his life as it is now: where he can captain his team in the league matches, where Cesare can travel around Italy and Europe doing what he loves, and at the end of the week they can go home together and snuggle up on the sofa watching some mindless reality TV show neither of them pays any attention to.

Cesare is waiting in the car, his outline barely visible behind the wheel, only illuminated by the stadium lights. Riccardo knows it’s him only because he’s learned to recognize Cesare’s car anywhere.

Riccardo gets into the car and closes the door behind him without a word, settling down on the passenger side comfortably before looking over at Cesare with affectionate smile and soft tone, “Hi. Fancy seeing you here.”

The urge to kiss Cesare is there, but he knows there must be paparazzi lurking around the parking area, just waiting to catch the players in compromising positions. Theirs might be the most compromising of all.

Cesare is just looking at him, a sad but gentle smile on his lips. Riccardo is familiar with this sadness – it’s a part of Cesare, he’s learned to live with it – but right now it seems heavier, somehow, not like the last time Riccardo saw him some two weeks ago.

(Thirteen days, to be exact, Riccardo has counted.)

“Everything okay?” Riccardo reaches over, and Cesare allows him to entwine their fingers.

“It’s almost November 26th.” It’s all Cesare needs to say for Riccardo to realize what he’s forgotten. November 26, the death anniversary of Manuela. No wonder Cesare is so down.

Just for a moment, Riccardo lets himself forget about the paparazzi and the passers-by that might see them, and he leans in to kiss Cesare, as gentle and considerate as he can possibly be. He promised to become Cesare’s strength, long before they even became involved, and he has no intention of betraying that promise now when Cesare needs him.

Cesare is crying, silent tears rolling down his cheeks and slipping between their lips, salty taste mixing into the kiss. Riccardo lifts his free hand and wipes the tears away the best he can without breaking the kiss. He squeezes Cesare’s hand wrapped around his, and he can feel Cesare tightening his hold in response.

There’s a sudden flash of light and for a second Riccardo is sure it’s a paparazzi. He breaks the kiss and jerks back, putting just enough distance between them to appear respectable. The light turns out to be another car driving out of the parking lot instead of the camera Riccardo had been expecting.

“That was reckless of you,” Cesare tells him in a tone that’s only half-berating. His eyes are full of warmth that Riccardo can sense even in the dark; it’s enough to mask the sadness from earlier. It’s all Riccardo needs to see, to decide that being reckless must have been the right call.

“Reckless is my middle name,” he jokes airily and earns a laugh from Cesare in return.

“I’ve missed you, Riccardo.” Cesare starts the engine, his focus on the dashboard now rather than on Riccardo, which allows him to study the older man in peace.

“So, I guess you’ll be back in Florence next week, to visit her grave?”

“I think I’ll stay for a while this time. Three weeks is more than enough time away from home. Away from you.”

“Oh.” Riccardo probably should’ve seen it coming. Cesare always manages to surprise him by just stating the obvious. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

 

(Later, they will have a conversation that goes something like this:

“Will you be coming, to the grave?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I’d like you to be there, Riccardo. She’d want it too.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Riccardo won’t be at the grave.

But he will be waiting Cesare at his house after, and he will allow Cesare to bury his face into his lap and cry until he’s all out of tears.

And Cesare will tell him “I love you” and Riccardo will tell him “I know”, although deep inside there’s relief, because there’s always been that small part of him that thought he would never get to hear those words.)


	8. Doing something sweet

Riccardo’s birthday falls on a Tuesday – just your regular day on the training grounds, really – so he doesn’t expect anything special.

Cesare has been out of town for a few days already and is not expected to be back before the weekend, so Riccardo goes straight home from practice instead of heading to Cesare’s, where he spends most of his free time these days: it’s bigger than Riccardo’s own apartment, not to mention it’s located out of the immediate city area so the chances of them being seen together are much lower.

There’s light shining from his kitchen window when he parks his car, but Riccardo chalks it up to too early morning and too little caffeine in his system. Cesare has the keys to his place, but Riccardo has long since stopped expecting him to come over.

It’s only when he walks into his apartment and smells the scent of cooking butter and sage that Riccardo finally admits even to himself that he had been upset over the idea of Cesare missing his birthday.

“What’re you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back before Friday!” Riccardo exclaims as he skips into the kitchen to meet Cesare.

He’s greeted by a clean kitchen – he never leaves the place this clean, since he rarely cooks there anyways – homemade _casoncelli_ boiling on the stove and the butter sauce simmering next to it. The dishwasher is on, a proof that Cesare not only took the liberty to cook on his own, but also took the time to clean up Riccardo’s usual mess.

The small dining table is already set, a bottle of wine in the middle along with three candles illuminating the romantic setting, it’s all very sweet. And Cesare— Cesare is stirring the sauce and makes no move to come and kiss Riccardo, which probably would piss Riccardo off if he wasn’t so stunned over Cesare being there in the first place.

“Did you really think I’d miss your birthday? After all the hell you raised over it when you were a kid?” There’s a teasing smile on Cesare’s face, just like there usually is when he reminds Riccardo that yes, Cesare still remembers what a pain in the ass he was at 8 years of age.

“I prefer not to expect too much.” Riccardo hops on the kitchen counter, paying only half a mind to make sure the table is clean before sitting on it. He purses his lips at Cesare in annoyance because really, what’s a man got to do to get a happy birthday kiss from his partner?

Cesare turns off the heat and pours the pasta into a colander to drain, before finally turning around and facing Riccardo.

“I swear, Riccardo, sometimes it feels like you _want_ me to let you down.” Cesare cups Riccardo’s face between his hands and holds his gaze for the longest time, so long it makes Riccardo squirm in his place. “You deserve all the good things in the world, Riccardo. I wish you could see that as clearly as I do.”

There’s warmth rising on Riccardo’s cheeks, and he chuckles self-consciously. “Just shut up and kiss me, will you?”

Cesare obliges, catching Riccardo’s lips into a long, languid kiss. His hands slide from Riccardo’s face to caress his neck, fingertips finding the most sensitive points at the back of his neck, just below his hairline.

“Damn, I wish I could just keep you here,” Riccardo breathes out when they break the kiss for air. He knows it’s a selfish wish, and he would never actually ask something like that from Cesare, but it’s a persistent thought that he keeps coming back to. “It’s like I miss you more every time you’re away.”

Cesare kisses him again, this time shorter, but just as sweet. It’s the type of happy birthday kiss Riccardo was waiting for in the first place. “I’m sorry, I keep making you wait.”

“Don’t be,” Riccardo assures him quickly. He wraps his arms around Cesare’s neck, urging him to move as close as he can, standing between Riccardo’s spread legs, their chests pressed together. “I’m fine with missing you until the end of the world, as long as you keep coming back to me.”

“Always,” Cesare tells him softly, brushing his lips against Riccardo’s one, two, three times before he finally glances at the food waiting for them. “I think we need to start eating. It took me hours to get everything ready for tonight, wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Oh yeah, we wouldn’t want that.” Riccardo remains seated on the kitchen counter, studying the way Cesare puts the finishing touches to their dinner and carries the plates to the dinner table. He knows this used to be Manuela’s trademark dish, but it’s been ages since a reminded like that could hurt Riccardo.

As of today, Riccardo is 26 years old, and that makes him old enough to understand he’s not old at all: he’s learned to accept there will always be pieces of Cesare’s past, present, or future he won’t be able to replace, and that’s perfectly fine. He doesn’t need to replace Manuela to make Cesare happy.

“I love you so much.” The words come out without a conscious decision: the only truth Riccardo knows.

Cesare looks at him from the dining table, where he’s opening the bottle of white wine – Riccardo’s favourite brand – and let’s out an indulgent laugh. “I love you too, Riccardo. Now get down here, before the pasta gets cold.”

Riccardo does as he is told, stealing another kiss from Cesare before he sits down at the table.


	9. Cuddling

“They sent it to my home address.”

Cesare is reading the letter in silence. It’s short and grammatically incorrect and built out of individual letters cut out of tabloid headlines. Everything you could ask for in your usual old-school death threats. Riccardo feels almost flattered.

Riccardo is curled up on Cesare’s bed, on top of the covers, still wearing the same clothes he was wearing some three hours ago when he left his apartment and drove to Cesare’s, even though he knew Cesare wouldn’t be home yet.

“That’s it: you’re not going back there before the police has caught whoever’s doing this.” Cesare drops the letter back on the nightstand and sits down on the edge of the bed. His hand finds Riccardo’s hair and caresses the tangled curls – Riccardo keeps pulling on his own hair, it’s a new nervous tick bought on by all the pressure he’s under. “You know you can stay here as long as you want, don’t you?”

“I never thought it’d be this hard,” Riccardo whispers against the soft pillow, his voice muffled but still loud enough that Cesare probably catches his words.

He had known it would be tough when he made the decision to leave Fiorentina. He’s been at the club for years, experienced the ups and downs together with the club and the fans. Being stripped of the captaincy was the least he could’ve expected; he could even understand the jeers of the fans at the stadium after the news broke.

He had expected the backlash, but he had also expected the uproar to die down after the first shock wore off. He’s not the first player leaving the club – not even the first player to wait and let his contract to run out. But as the season drags on, he’s realized it’s not getting any better. The death threats are just the icing on the cake.

Cesare’s hand in his hair is helping him relax, allowing the tension to bleed out of his body. Ever since the season started, Cesare’s presence has been the only thing keeping Riccardo sane under all the turmoil.

“You’ll get through it.” Cesare leans down to press a gentle kiss against Riccardo’s temple. “You’re the strongest person I’ve met. It’s just a few more months and it’ll be over.”

“Try eight months.” Riccardo laughs humourlessly. There’s no way the club management will let him walk in January, when they weren’t ready to do it in August.

Riccardo’s lost count with how many times he’s just wanted to give in and sign the new contract. It would’ve been so easy, to bind himself to the club for the next few years, to win back the love of their fans. But then there was Milan— Milan had always been the dream, the first club Riccardo remembers supporting, the first club he’d dreamed of playing for. The promise of Milan had been enough to keep him holding on to his pride when Fiorentina management rejected offer after offer during the summer market.

Cesare lets out a heavy sigh and then he lies down next to Riccardo. Riccardo scoots over to give him more space, but Cesare only follows him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him tightly against his chest. Riccardo finds himself cocooned in the tight embrace, his face pressed against the crook of Cesare’s neck. It makes him feel safe, even when the whole outside world seems to be against him.

“You’re not in the wrong,” Cesare murmurs against his hair, dropping a kiss on top of Riccardo’s head. “You’ve got every right to leave. It’s just a job, not a deal with the Devil.”

Cesare’s never once doubted Riccardo’s decision to wait for Milan. Not even though his own playing career was celebrated in the rivalling clubs; not even if Riccardo’s eventual move would mean they’re not going to be able see each other like this, every day. He’s only ever encouraged Riccardo to fight for what he wants.

“Am I just being selfish?” Riccardo asks quietly, his voice breaking with the tears he didn’t realize he’s been holding back. “I’m just causing trouble for everyone by being stubborn. The club, Mihajlović—” his voice hitches with a half-suppressed sob, “ _You._ ”

Cesare tightens his hold on Riccardo, like he’s trying to protect him from the pain and fear just by being there. He is succeeding, just like he always does, and Riccardo burrows himself even deeper into the embrace, presses his lips against Cesare’s neck in wordless thanks.

“Nonsense,” Cesare is telling him, the words familiar to him by now, “there’s nothing wrong with being selfish. It’s your life, you’re the only one who should have any say in it. And I don’t mind you troubling me: I’ll always be here for you, no matter what. You know that, Riccardo.”

“But you don’t actually want me to go,” Riccardo says, his tone almost accusing. He’s glad he cannot see Cesare’s face, because that way he’d feel the need to apologize immediately. He just wants Cesare to be honest with him.

“I don’t want you to go anywhere I can’t follow you,” Cesare tells him firmly. He is running his hand up and down Riccardo’s spine, every movement designed to comfort Riccardo, to ease his doubts brought on by the vicious nature of the outside world. “Milan’s just a few hours away. And nothing’s keeping me here: my job’s all over Italy, I can do it from Milan as well as I do it from here, if I choose to do so.”

Every word is hitting right home, reminding Riccardo that Cesare is on his side, no matter what his anxiety keeps telling him. No matter what the fans say, no matter what club Riccardo joins, no matter how selfish he is, he will always have Cesare in his corner, lending him strength to go through with the plan, to follow his dreams.

They’re much stronger together than either of them could be on their own. That’s why they work so well together.

Riccardo shifts inside Cesare’s embrace until he can bury his hands under Cesare’s shirt, drawing circles against the warm skin with his fingers. It’s more of a natural instinct to get closer to Cesare than anything sexual, the skin on skin contact calming him down where words couldn’t.

“How could I ever live without you?” he asks softly, craning his neck so he can actually meet Cesare’s eyes, not caring if there’s a stray tear rolling down his cheek unchecked. Cesare wipes it away gently.

“It’s good you won’t have to, then.”

Cesare’s hand presses against the back of his neck, holding him in place so they can press their lips together, first gentle and then heavier, tongues meeting each other in the middle. There might be a gasp escaping from Riccardo’s lips, but it’s swallowed into the kiss as their bodies entangle together, the comforting cuddles turning into something more heated.

Riccardo remembers the letter on the nightstand only hours later. Cesare has thrown it out long before that.


	10. Kissing

The Euro 2012 final tournament goes by in a rush.

It begins with underwhelming draws but continues in a row victories, Ireland and England and Germany going down in what feels like a continuous haze, something that seems too good to be true, before it all comes crashing down in the darkening evening of Kyiv.

There will come a time when they are proud of the second place, but that time is not tonight, not when every single player on the team feels bitter and lost – angry at themselves, more than anything.

Riccardo is alternating between being angry at himself for not being good enough and being angry at Cesare for not letting him play until the end. He can still feel Cesare’s comforting touch on his face from when he was subbed off, but he cannot feel the comfort, only pity.

The Spanish team is celebrating around them and Riccardo has long since given up on holding back the tears of frustration and disappointment. The memory of going out of the World Cup two years ago is nothing compared to the feeling of tonight, because tonight they had all believed they could _win_.

Cesare is somewhere close by, his rigid posture and greying hair flashing in the corner of Riccardo’s vision but not approaching him. They both know the reason, too: they’re in public, so even if they tried, they couldn’t say or do anything to each other that would make this hurt go away.

They get their medals; they pretend to hear the useless congratulations; they watch as the Spaniards are awarded for their victory. For that one moment alone, Riccardo truly hates football.

“C’mon kid, let’s get outta here.” Gigi’s hand presses against the small of Riccardo’s back, as he leads the younger man out of the spotlight and towards the dressing room. Riccardo hadn’t even realized they were finally allowed to leave the pitch.

The dressing room is unusually quiet, no rash jokes or quiet conversations, only the oppressive silence pressing itself into every corner of the room, until the players feel like they’re going to break something if they utter a single word.

Cesare is nowhere to be seen. Riccardo is almost relieved.

It’s been hard enough to get through the tournament without being able to lean on Cesare; with no one there with him who understands what he’s going through. Giampi is back in Italy, and not even his daily texts have done anything to alleviate the feeling of loneliness Riccardo’s been fighting off.

He doesn’t blame Cesare – he knows they need to stay cautious, especially after the scandal over Cassano’s homophobic comments and Cesare’s inability to punish him for it because of the Federation’s interference – but there is a tiny part of him that keeps wishing things could be different.

It’s been two years, and they’re still forced to hide their relationship, even from their closest friends on the national team. Even after Cesare publicly declared his support for homosexuals playing sports, he’s still holding back the truth about himself.

And for what? Is football really worth all that?

“Gigi?” Riccardo asks his captain quietly, making sure no one else in the emptying dressing room hears him. “If you had to choose between football and being true to yourself, which one would you choose?”

Gigi looks so exhausted, Riccardo immediately feels bad about bothering him with something so trivial. But then he offers Riccardo a tired smile and ruffles his hair in fatherly fashion. “Does it have to be either or? I think you can only play your best football when you’re being honest with yourself.”

“And what if that’s not a choice?”

“It should be.”

Gigi leaves Riccardo with that declaration, only making him feel more confused than before.

Cesare is waiting for him in the corridor when Riccardo finally comes out of the dressing room, one of the last ones to leave. Or maybe he’s not even waiting for _Riccardo_ per se, just making sure all the players make it back to the bus on time.

Their eyes meet, and Riccardo can see the same unhidden pain in Cesare’s eyes that’s also pulling at his own heartstrings. He can’t remember ever needing Cesare’s shared strength as much as he does now.

Suddenly Gigi’s earlier comment makes perfect sense.

There’s no one else in the corridor when Riccardo closes the distance between them and sinks into Cesare’s waiting arms. Cesare’s embrace is warm and protective, and Riccardo’s shoulders are shaking with suppressed sobs.

He doesn’t want to feel this lonely anymore, never again, not when Cesare is right here. He says those words out loud too, his voice breaking and hitching between each word, muffled by the fabric of Cesare’s suit jacket, but Cesare still hears them and only holds him tighter.

“It’s going to be okay,” Cesare tells Riccardo, his voice steady and calm, nothing like how Riccardo’s feeling.

Riccardo has no idea which one of them initiates the kiss – maybe they both lean in at the same time – but no matter who it was, they’re suddenly kissing right there in the empty corridor, weeks’ worth of pining coming to an end with an uncomfortable clash of lips that holds no patience nor gentleness, only the raw need coursing through their veins.

There’s a banging sound of a door and then an incredulous voice that pulls them apart, “I shoulda fuckin’ known.”

Cassano. Of course it had to be Cassano. The shock of being caught and the fear of their secret being exposed has frozen Riccardo in place, he can’t even move away from Cesare even though he knows he should.

There’s uncovered disgust on Cassano’s face, and for a moment Riccardo is sure his career is over. Then his teammate rolls his eyes and tells them to “Get a fuckin’ room” before he walks away, grumbling something about “goddamn faggots.”

“He’s gonna tell everyone,” Riccardo says out loud only once Cassano is definitely out of earshot. He has just enough sense to step out of Cesare’s arms to avoid anyone else discovering them in a compromising position.

“No, he won’t,” Cesare assures him, his tone too certain to be faked. “Even an idiot learns from his mistakes. He knows what’s going to happen if he causes another homophobia scandal.”

Riccardo is not quite ready to believe him. But it’s enough for now, so he allows Cesare to take a hold of his hand and pull him along towards the waiting team bus.


	11. Under the influence

Riccardo had known it was only a matter of time before he would get questioned by his Azzurri teammates.

Lucky for them, Cassano hadn’t immediately revealed their secret to the media, just like Cesare had predicted, but that didn’t stop him from sharing what he saw with the rest of the national team, obviously looking for some validation for his disgruntlement.

Much to Riccardo’s surprise, no one had brought it up during their trip back to Italy or in the weeks following the tournament. He had almost started to believe Cassano had – against all odds – kept the information to himself and Riccardo had read the situation all wrong.

Summer break came to an end and Riccardo found himself welcomed in Milanello, getting used to his new teammates and training grounds. The news of Cassano’s transfer request reached him almost at the same time, not surprising Riccardo in the least.

Ignazio had been the first one to acknowledge the situation out loud, proving once and for all that Riccardo’s secret was not his and Cesare’s alone anymore.

“Don’t worry about it, Monto. It’s just him. No one else cares: we all know you, and we all know _Mister_.”

That had been it, as far as his Milan teammates were concerned. Along with Giampi’s surprise transfer to Milan, Riccardo had found himself for the first time in an environment where he didn’t feel like he needed to hide who he was.

But the worst was yet to come: the scrutiny of his Azzurri teammates. Riccardo was not looking forward to the next international break.

As it turns out, he didn’t need to wait until the international break; instead, he was invited to ‘just a casual meetup with a few of the guys’ at Pirlo’s house. And Pirlo’s house meant beer – loads of it.

“So, Ricky, what’s the deal with you and _Mister_?”

It’s the master of the house himself who finally brings up the question all of them must have been dying to ask. It really is just a few of them: Andrea, Gigi, Claudio, Daniele – Riccardo doesn’t even know how he’s here when he’s living in Rome – and Igna, who’d agreed to come along as moral support for Riccardo but is now looking at him with the same curious eyes as the rest of the group.

They’ve all had a few beers too much at this point, because apparently that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re brooding over a lost final.

“There’s no _deal_ ,” Riccardo emphasizes the word, because it seems almost insulting, something meant to diminish his relationship with Cesare. “We’re together, yeah. But you knew that much already.”

He wouldn’t be talking about it this openly was it not for the alcohol, but somehow it feels liberating to say it all out loud. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

“But—,” Andrea starts but then he stumbles over his words, obviously trying to not to sound judgemental. “Like, how? And since when? How’d we not notice?”

“Two years,” Riccardo says airily, faked confidence in his voice not enough to convince even himself. He’s rolling the almost empty beer bottle between his hands, just so he can have something else to focus on other than the faces of his shocked teammates. “Maybe you’re not as perceptive as you thought? I mean, Giampi noticed _right away_.” Now his tone is challenging. Only an idiot challenges Andrea Pirlo openly. And Riccardo while drunk, apparently.

Unexpectedly, Riccardo finds he’s enjoying the shocked expression on his friends’ faces.

_See, you thought you knew me, when you knew nothing at all. How’s that feel?_

Unsurprisingly it’s Gigi who finds his voice first, asking the next question in a gentle voice, offering Riccardo a curious, yet not unfriendly smile, “So, how did it happen? Haven’t you known him practically all your life? How’d you go from that to _this_?”

“I made the first move, if that’s what you’re asking. Took him completely by surprise, too.” Riccardo knows Gigi didn’t mean the question to come out as accusing, only curious – Gigi is among the few players Riccardo knows would never judge him – but he’s on the edge, feeling like he needs to defend his right to be with Cesare. “We just realized we’d become really close after his wife’s death. It just happened.”

“Calm down, Juliet!” Andrea exclaims with a sudden laugh, throwing his hands in the air, splashing his beer in the process. “We’re all happy for you! It’s all good as long as you make each other happy, right?”

“He does make you happy, right?” Gigi pipes in, sharp eyes meeting Riccardo’s, even though he’s still smiling.

“Of course he does!” Riccardo shoots back, holding Gigi’s gaze far longer than necessarily comfortable. Andrea has pushed a new beer bottle into his hands, like a peace offering.

“We actually just wanted to let you know you don’t need to worry about Cassano running his mouth,” Daniele finally says, after clearing his throat to get Riccardo’s attention. “Or anyone else, for that matter. We’ve got your back. Both of you.”

Riccardo has never been a weepy drunk, but he suddenly feels like crying.

Gigi is beaming at him even as Riccardo wipes away a stray tear threatening to fall. “See, kid? There’s always a choice to do both.”

Maybe Gigi had felt bad about causing the whole thing with his careless advice? Riccardo never even thought of blaming him.

“Thanks, I guess?” He offers an uncertain smile to Gigi, who reaches out and ruffles his hair in response.

“I still can’t believe you kept it hidden for _two fucking years_. You’re not that good of a liar.”

Riccardo’s sniffled “You’d be surprised.” is drowned out by Daniele’s “For fuck’s sake, just shut up Andrea.”

Andrea sniggers and sinks back in his armchair, sipping his beer contently. “No, I mean I’m impressed. I’m proud of you, Ricky.”

The discussion switches over to safer topics again, and Riccardo finally has a chance to wipe away the rest of his traitorous tears. While Claudio and Igna argue over some past Milan – Juve match, Riccardo picks up his phone and sends a quick text to Cesare.

_“We’re gonna be fine. I love you.”_

Andrea, helpful as ever, reads the text over his shoulder on his way to get more beer and lets out a loud, “B’awwww, you’re too fucking sweet! I’m getting cavities!” He doesn’t offer any explanations to the rest of the group.

Riccardo thinks he could get used to this.


	12. Texting

Riccardo has never been big on texting.

He uses them, of course – who doesn’t, in this day and age? – but especially when it comes to Cesare, he finds this method of communication lacking something important.

He would much rather just call or video chat whenever he has something to say to Cesare, because it’s always a small luxury to hear his partner’s warm voice or see the loving expression on his face when they see each other – albeit through their phones – for the first time in days. It’s even bigger deal to them now, with Riccardo living in Milan while Cesare has so far opted to stay in Florence.

_“We can’t be too careful. It’d raise too many questions if I were to move to Milan right after you.”_

Cesare is right, of course, but that doesn’t mean Riccardo isn’t bitter over it. He hates missing Cesare – he hated it even when they were still living in the same city – and ever since his transfer, he’s been fighting off the constant state of pining.

He doesn’t say anything about it to Cesare, because _hello?_ It was _Riccardo_ who decided he wanted to transfer to Milan without asking for Cesare’s opinion in the first place. It doesn’t matter if Cesare was always supportive of his choice, it was still ultimately Riccardo’s call.

But alas, it’s hard to keep calling Cesare whenever the longing becomes too much, because it happens at least twenty times a day and usually when Riccardo is surrounded by teammates who might or might not know about his very secret relationship.

So, he texts. A lot. He texts every single silly thought that crosses his mind. He texts every little thing that happens to him during the day. He texts random _I love you_ s and _I miss you_ s and _What did you eat today_ s throughout the day, not even expecting an answer from Cesare who’s criminally lacklustre in his digital communications. Generational differences, he once claimed. Riccardo thinks he’s just lazy.

And then, once evening comes around and he can finally go hide in his dorm room with some made-up excuse, he will make a video call and tell all those same things to Cesare’s face.

They can talk for hours like that, with Riccardo lying in his bed with hair sticking in every possible direction, and Cesare sitting in the corner of his sofa – _their sofa_ – the same ridiculous reality TV shows that they used to watch – or ‘watch’ – together running in the background.

They usually only end the call when Giampi joins Riccardo in their room, a sure sign that it’s time for bed or they’re going to be groggy and pissed off in the morning practice.

Sometimes Giampi just wags his eyebrows and maybe makes a lewd comment about phone sex, other times he’ll tell Riccardo to, “Say hi to _Mister_ for me,” or, “Tell him I’m still waiting for that Azzurri call-up.”

Then there are the odd times, like tonight, when Giampi will walk over to Riccardo’s bed instead of his own and makes him scoot over, lying down next to him until he can see Cesare on the phone screen.

“Hey Cesare, you need to come over before Ricky loses it,” he informs Cesare without any preamble, much to Riccardo’s horror. “Honestly, his whining is driving me fucking crazy. He’s your responsibility, so you need to start acting like it!”

Cesare chuckles and tells Giampi to look after Riccardo for him until he can make it there. Giampi salutes him and then bites Riccardo’s shoulder playfully, making him yelp in surprise. Cesare’s laughter is the last thing they hear before the call is disconnected.

“You’re the worst,” Riccardo whines but allows Giampi to continue cuddling him, “the absolute fucking worst. Why do I keep you around?”

“Because I’m the only one brave enough to tell _Mister_ what you’re really thinking,” Giampi kisses Riccardo’s cheek for good measure. “I’m just looking out for you, Ricky.”

“I know you are.” Riccardo smiles half-heartedly and opens his text messages again. Giampi doesn’t move from his spot, obviously determined to stay next to Riccardo until the morning. Riccardo is not complaining.

Riccardo types one more text – _I really do miss you like crazy. Sweet dreams!_ – and then he places the phone on the floor next to the bed and rests his head on Giampi’s shoulder with a heavy sigh.

Sleep claims him only a few minutes later, with Giampi’s hand drawing calming circles against his back.


	13. Something sad

The sun is shining brightly in the cloudless Florence sky, bathing the whole scenery with vivid colours and warm breath of summer. The whole nature seems to be coming alive with the sun, celebrating life in all its beauty and wonder.

What an odd day to visit a graveyard, Riccardo thinks silently.

Odd, yes, but somehow still not unsuitable.

Cesare is walking a few paces ahead of him, leading the way, even though Riccardo knows where Manuela’s grave is. He’s been here many times over the years, just not with Cesare.

“Here we are,” Cesare says as he comes to a halt in front of the headstone. Riccardo has a feeling Cesare’s not talking to him. He still walks the rest of the way until he’s standing right next to Cesare, so close their shoulders would be touching if one of them leaned to the side just a little bit.

It had been Riccardo’s idea to come here, a silent moment between intense training sessions in preparation for their first World Cup together.

Cesare steps forward and crouches down, one knee on the ground, brushing dirt off the headstone with gentle hands.

Someone – probably Cesare’s daughter – has planted colourful flowers on the grave, all yellows and oranges with only a hint of purple in the middle. Riccardo places the bouquet he brought among the mix – these all Azzurri blues and whites.

“She’d be so proud of you,” Cesare says softly, glancing at Riccardo over his shoulder with a loving smile, “she was always looking after you, saying you’d become something great if you ever just faced forward and started fighting for what’s rightfully yours.”

“She had so much faith in me, probably more than I deserved,” Riccardo agrees with a quiet chuckle, thinking back to all the times Manuela had forced Cesare to invite him over for dinner just so she could fuss over him. “She was so strong too, I was so sure she’d beat the illness by sheer willpower alone.”

He remembers the last few conversations he’d had with Manuela before she passed away: they’d all taken place during the solitary moments when Riccardo had managed to convince Cesare to take a rest by promising to stay with his wife while he slept.

She’d been adamant that Riccardo shouldn’t leave Cesare alone, because he was no good on his own; he needed someone there to guide him. Riccardo had found the words odd back then, but now he gets it.

Maybe Manuela had seen something in him long before Riccardo himself could figure it out?

“Every fight must come to an end,” Cesare tells him with a heavy sigh as he stands up, brushing off grass from his trousers. “At least she’s not hurting anymore. I’m sure she’d be happy to know we’re here for each other. That’s what she was most worried about until the very end.”

Riccardo can’t imagine himself ever being happy with the idea of Cesare being with someone else, but maybe that’s exactly what made Manuela so special. She was so selfless, until the bitter end; just thinking about it makes Riccardo feel like the most selfish person on earth.

Cesare takes a hold of Riccardo’s hand before the thought can get any further, like knowing what he’s thinking of. He probably does – four years together and counting, Cesare has mastered the skill of reading Riccardo’s moods.

“Thank you for coming with me, Riccardo.”

Cesare brushes his lips against Riccardo’s, a stolen kiss in the empty graveyard. His hand remains in Riccardo’s when he breaks the kiss, neither of them willing to let go, not before they’re back at the car.

_Now_ they’re ready.

Now they’re finally ready to fly to Brazil and face the World Cup together, side by side.

 

 

 

(The following evening in London, Riccardo breaks his leg.

It feels like the whole world shatters along with his dreams.)


	14. Something happy

Whoever said that thing about being happy for other people’s achievements ahead of your own probably never had the World Cup call-up snatched from them right at the last minute.

Riccardo can’t find it in himself to enjoy the tournament, not even as he forces himself to watch the first match, the Azzurri beating England, with Giampi there with him as moral support. All he can think of is how unfair it is, how _he should be there_ , how even the victory leaves a bitter taste in his mouth because it’s all _wrong_.

The painkillers are making him groggy and irritable, but he keeps taking them, because without them he’s irritable and _in pain_.

He’s barely sleeping, because apparently feeling exhausted isn’t the same as being sleepy: he can’t find the energy to fight the apathy, but at the same time his mind is too full of angry thoughts, sad thoughts, selfish thoughts that keep him awake at nights. And once the meds start wearing off, the pain in his leg stops him from sleeping for the rest of the night.

Chiellini texts him every day without a fail, but Riccardo never answers, mostly because he knows that whatever he has to say would come across as bitter and self-centred.

Cesare texts him too, and then calls afterwards unless Riccardo replies within the next hour. Often, he calls even when Riccardo does reply. Riccardo knows he should be thankful to him, for taking the time in his busy schedule to worry about Riccardo’s wellbeing, but instead every call is making him feel worse.

He doesn’t _want_ to be angry at Cesare.

Rationally thinking, he knows he has no reason to be angry at him: it’s not Cesare’s fault Riccardo broke his leg, and it’s definitely not his fault Riccardo needed to stay back in Italy to get his injury treated. But rationality is the last thing in his mind when all he can think about is how _Cesare left him behind_.

More often than not, Riccardo leaves Cesare’s calls unanswered, because he can’t face his own jealousy and pettiness. Later, he sends short texts, making up excuses so Cesare won’t feel obligated to try and call again.

After two weeks, Cesare stops trying. It makes Riccardo feel even worse, but at the same time he’s relieved because at least this way he can keep pretending the World Cup isn’t actually happening.

_‘Cesare is a mess. Call him.’_ Chiellini tells him in one of his texts. Riccardo ignores the message pointedly, assuring himself he’s the bigger mess, so he’s got every right to decide when he’s ready to call.

Once Italy gets eliminated in the group stages for the second time in four years, there’s a part of Riccardo that is actually _happy_. He catches himself before he can let any of those feelings out, immediately disgusted with himself, but no matter how much he berates himself, the feeling won’t go away, lodged in the back of his mind somewhere between his anger and loneliness.

That night, he skips the painkillers and curls up in bed with his leg aching. But even through the pain, he still can’t shake off the feeling of self-loathing that will keep him up half the night, until he passes out on sheer exhaustion.

 

 

(Cesare won’t question Riccardo’s radio silence once he’s back in Italy, and Riccardo won’t offer any explanations either.

He will allow Cesare to hold him while he sleeps off the jet lag, though, and just that closeness is enough to make Riccardo forget – even if it’s just for a moment – how horrible he’s been feeling ever since that cursed night at Craven Cottage.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, the word 'happy' was there so I did fill the prompt. *ducks flying objects*


	15. Missing each other

Cesare is going to Istanbul. Riccardo is having hard time wrapping his head around it.

When the offer from Galatasaray first came, Riccardo had told Cesare to go for it, because he could see how tempted Cesare was – it was the perfect opportunity to turn a new leaf after his disastrous Azzurri exit; a team far away from Italy, with money for new signings and Champions League football guaranteed for the upcoming season.

Riccardo hadn’t wanted to be the one to hold Cesare back, not after Cesare had shown nothing but support for his career since he transferred to Milan, and definitely not after his childish behaviour after he missed the World Cup that had almost led to the first official crisis in their relationship.

“It’s only a few hours by plane,” Riccardo says, probably more for his own benefit than Cesare’s.

“You’ll still be playing in Europe, we’ll have plenty of chances to see each other,” he reassures, silently going through the upcoming Champions League schedule in his head. The number of games seems to fall short. He leaves that part unsaid.

“It’s not like it’s forever,” he declares, his voice steady and certain, like it’s going to make the statement somehow more genuine if he just says it confidently enough.

He puts on a brave face when Cesare finally says yes to the offer, even though deep down he knows it’s going to be hell for him once Cesare is gone.

Riccardo doesn’t do well when he’s left on his own, his complete meltdown during the World Cup month is only the last one of many occasions that proves the point. Cesare keeps saying Riccardo is strong, but that’s a lie, Riccardo knows it better than anyone. He’s useless without Cesare.

But if the says any of this out loud, he knows Cesare will call off the move, and Riccardo doesn’t want that either. He wants to be the encouraging presence in Cesare’s life, a force that pushes him forward rather than keeps him tied down to one place.

They spend Cesare’s last night holed up in Riccardo’s apartment in Milan, kissing and touching and embracing each other, neither of them willing to break the physical contact even for a moment, because it’s the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Cesare tells Riccardo, a gentle hand brushing a strand of hair off Riccardo’s face, warm brown eyes meeting icy blue, nothing but love in the dark gaze.

Riccardo feels like crying, but instead of letting the tears fall he just kisses Cesare again and squeezes himself into Cesare’s lap, long legs wrapped around his waist and their naked upper bodies pressed together from chest to hip.

They make love deep into the night, whispering sweet nothings over and over again, until their entwined bodies are the only thing that means anything at all, until neither of them can remember that Cesare is flying to Istanbul at the crack of dawn.

“I don’t want you to go,” Riccardo admits once it’s all over. Cesare is already fast asleep, blissfully unaware of Riccardo’s moment of weakness.

Riccardo cannot sleep for the longest time. Instead, he cries the ugly tears of longing and bitterness, his strong façade finally giving in now that Cesare cannot see him.

Silently he wonders how on earth he’s going to survive Cesare actually leaving, when he’s already missing him now, when he’s right here next to him.


	16. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating's gone up.

One of the positive things about being injured is that Riccardo has time to do things he wouldn’t be able to do during the regular Serie A season.

Things like flying all the way to England just because Galatasaray happens to be playing Arsenal.

Cesare barely has time to close the hotel room door behind himself before he has his arms and face full of Riccardo – Riccardo clings to him without any shame, arms wrapped around his neck and lips latched on Cesare’s before either of them has a chance to say anything.

It hits him full force only now how much he’s missed Cesare. It’s easy enough to hide the longing behind jokes or anger – he’s been switching between the two since the summer – but when he’s finally faced with the fact that Cesare is _here_ , with him, there’s no force in the world that could pull him away from that embrace.

“Don’t you dare,” Riccardo threatens against Cesare’s lips when he makes a move to pull away, probably just to put his bag down. Cesare has his own room too, on the same floor with the Galatasaray squad, but they both know he has no intention of staying there.

The bag falls to the floor in the middle of the room as Riccardo starts pulling Cesare towards the bed, hands already tugging on his shirt buttons and lips brushing against every part of Cesare’s face and neck he can reach.

Cesare’s shirt is off by the time they reach the bed. Riccardo plops down to sit on the edge of the bed, hands already on Cesare’s belt, blue eyes locking with the dark brown ones in wordless challenge as he looks up at Cesare’s face.

His frustration is betrayed by his every movement, as he quickly opens the belt and pushes Cesare’s trousers down too, leaving him practically naked. They’ve been talking almost daily for months, but this is something he’s been yearning for, all this time: Cesare’s skin under his fingertips and under his lips, the kind of closeness that’s only possible when they’re sharing the same air.

“Dear God, you’re gorgeous,” Cesare tells him in a low voice, and then he cups Riccardo’s face between his hands and kisses his mouth again, their tongues meeting immediately. Riccardo allows Cesare to take control from there: his t-shirt and jeans quickly join Cesare’s clothes on the floor and then he just lays back, arms wrapped around Cesare’s neck to keep him close and legs spread, settling comfortably on either side of Cesare’s hips.

Cesare takes his sweet time, much to Riccardo’s annoyance, hands and lips slowly mapping every inch of Riccardo’s body. By the time Cesare finally takes him – steadying hands on his hips, their bodies as close as physically possible – Riccardo is already shivering with arousal, small whimpers escaping his lips unbidden, hands tugging on Cesare’s hair impatiently until Cesare kisses him again, silencing him.

“Don’t stop,” Riccardo is pleading against his lips, breathing laboured and voice strangled, words swallowed up into the kiss. “I love you, please, don’t stop—”

But no amount of pleading can drag the moment on forever, not when they’ve both been so depraved of physical contact for months. Riccardo is the first one to sob out his release into the kiss, but Cesare is not far behind, finishing himself up by hand, his come joining Riccardo’s between their bellies.

They stay put for a long time, the semen sticky between their bodies but neither of them cares enough to get up and find something to clean themselves up with. Cesare is caressing Riccardo’s face with his fingertips, the soft touches travelling over his cheeks, his lips, his jaw, his temples…

“I’m sorry I left,” Cesare says softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, and the words strike Riccardo somewhere deep inside, a part of him he’s been trying so hard to bury.

The sobs push their way out of his chest before he can even think of stopping them. It’s like a dam has suddenly been broken, and there’s nothing he can do that can stop those overwhelming feelings now. Cesare does his best to wipe away the tears rolling down Riccardo’s cheeks, but there are too many of them, tears of bitterness and loneliness and pining that Riccardo has been forcing back for so long.

“Hush, it’s okay now. Just let it all out.” Cesare rocks Riccardo in his arms and whispers sweet nothings into his hair, kissing the top of his head between the words. “I’m right here, Riccardo. I’m always coming back for you, I promise.”

“But that’s not enough!” Riccardo regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, but it’s out in the open now and he can do nothing to stop the words from coming out. “I can’t take it anymore. You’re so far away, it feels like I can’t even reach you anymore.” Riccardo tries to push Cesare away and wipe away his own tears, but Cesare only holds him tighter, like afraid that if he lets go, it will be the end. “And you’re going back every single time, and it _hurts_ so fucking much. It hurts _more_ every time, and it’s like you don’t even care—”

“I do care,” Cesare assures him, his voice steady, but the words sound hollow to Riccardo’s defiant ears.

“Then why’re you leaving again?” Riccardo’s tone is accusing, harsh, and he’s wishing he could just shut up before he says something he won’t be able to take back. But it’s too late now. “If you care so much, why do you keep leaving me behind? You never left _her_ behind, did you?”

That makes Cesare sit back and finally meet Riccardo’s eyes. There’s so much hurt in Cesare’s eyes, it makes Riccardo feel sick to his stomach, even as another smaller part of him is feeling the sick satisfaction because he’s finally managed to hurt Cesare like Cesare’s been hurting him.

A much bigger part of Riccardo is only feeling disgusted with himself, though. This isn’t why he came to England. This isn’t why he’s been waiting for Cesare.

“I—,” Riccardo wants to apologize, but he cannot bring himself to do it, because he knows every single word he said is true: this is what he’s been struggling to cope with. “I need to be alone.”

“Riccardo—,” Cesare starts, eyes pleading but no more words come out.

“Please, Cesare, just go,” Riccardo says, pulling the blankets around himself, as if to create a barrier between them. It pains him to do it, to push Cesare away, but it’s the only thing he can think of to stop himself from destroying everything they’ve worked so hard for. “I just need some time. I can’t do this right now.”

Cesare finds Riccardo’s hand between the blankets and pulls it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. “You know where to find me, when you’re ready.”

“I know.” Riccardo’s voice breaks again, and he forcefully pulls his hand away from Cesare’s hold.

Riccardo forces himself not to look as Cesare gets dressed and retrieves his bag from where it fell earlier. If Cesare says something else before he leaves, Riccardo successfully blocks the words from his consciousness.

When the door finally closes, Riccardo allows himself to cry again.


	17. Eating

Everything after London feels like a blur, one event mixing up with another, all of it messed up by Riccardo’s erratic sleeping patterns – or the lack of thereof – until he can’t even tell what is true and what is just a result of his jumbled imagination.

It seems like London truly is the place from his nightmares; the place that first destroyed his dreams of playing in the World Cup again, and then again, the place where his relationship was broken beyond repair.

They haven’t officially broken up yet, of course, but Riccardo knows it’s only a matter of time.

After months of daily phone conversations, they’re suddenly not talking anymore. Riccardo knows it’s in part Cesare’s way of giving him the space he said needs, and in other, much bigger part, Riccardo plain out refusing to pick up the phone when Cesare tries to reach him, because he’s too terrified of what’s going to be said.

The distance and the silence are eating away at Riccardo, though, which is why he still keeps calling Cesare every once in a while, talking about superficial things, about his physio and recovery, about the Milan matches and the Galatasaray ones.

His London meltdown doesn’t come up, and Riccardo is beyond thankful for that, because as long as Cesare doesn’t bring up the topic, Riccardo can also keep pretending everything’s still fine between them. At least outwardly.

But the unspoken words are still eating him up inside.

Now that the truth is out – even if they’re getting very good at pretending it’s not – Riccardo can’t act like it’s not a big deal anymore.

He misses Cesare so much it physically hurts, but at the same time he’s dreading the next time they’re going to meet.

He doesn’t want to blame Cesare for his own weaknesses, because he knows Cesare is doing the only thing he can, trying to move on with his career after the Azzurri. He’s got every right to do so, too, and Riccardo’s never wanted to be the one to hold him back.

But at the same time the bitterness is there, an ever-growing monster inside him eating away at his heart, because now that Cesare knows what the distance is doing to Riccardo, it’s obvious he’s making the conscious choice to stay in Istanbul rather than come back to Riccardo.

It’s the first time in _years_ Riccardo can’t even push back the jealousy he feels towards Manuela.

A rational part of him is telling him there’s no point in trying to compete with someone who’s no longer in this world, but the reminder only makes him brood over the differences just that much harder – he cannot compare to Manuela, he never could, and he never will.

Manuela was the love of Cesare’s life, Riccardo will only ever be the second choice, if even that.

What makes Riccardo feel even worse is the fact that for him, there’s only ever been Cesare.

Cesare is coming to Italy for a few days. Riccardo finds out from Cesare’s daughter Carolina, who seems blissfully unaware of the rough patch they’re going through. Riccardo feels almost bad for her – Carolina had accepted Riccardo as part of her father’s life as soon as they’d told her, only happy someone had finally brought Cesare out of the darkness – so he takes pity and leaves her in her ignorance for now.

He does call Cesare that evening, the first time after six ignored calls, and asks him if he’s going to stop by in Milan before heading to Florence to visit his children.

After the call, he steels himself for the inevitable.

Anything is better than sitting on his hands and waiting for the silence to eat away everything they’ve ever shared, until there’s no more good memories left.

Even if it means breaking them up for good.


	18. Overcoming an obstacle together

Riccardo picks Cesare up from Malpensa. They don’t even hug at the airport, let alone kiss, and while it’s never been a big issue for them before – they’re used to hiding their relationship – this time it feels much more loaded, somehow personal.

The ride to Riccardo’s place passes in silence, neither of them willing to be the first one to speak up. Riccardo has a whole speech planned out, a list of all the reasons why he can’t keep doing this, but with Cesare right here with him, the words have all flown out of his mind.

He’s itching to touch Cesare, to pull the car over and kiss him until the pain of these past few months is nothing but a blurry memory they can brush under the carpet and keep pretending it’s not there.

But he knows he’s gone too far to back down now, even if his whole body is screaming for Cesare’s touch, his whole being telling him he’s making the biggest mistake of his life.

He doesn’t pull over, only continues driving, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Riccardo’s apartment is almost unnaturally clean; he’d spent the previous day scrubbing the whole place spotless, something he’s never done before just for the sake of Cesare coming over, but this time it had been the only thing keeping him from freaking out.

Now, Riccardo kicks off his sneakers carelessly and drops his jacket to the floor, the only things out of place in his otherwise immaculate hallway. He walks into the living room ahead of Cesare, still unwilling to meet his eyes in fear of triggering an argument – or worse yet, his own tears.

“Talk to me, Riccardo.” Cesare’s voice follows him, and finally Riccardo is forced to look at him, standing in the living room doorway still wearing his black trench coat. He looks so sad, so tired, and it breaks Riccardo’s heart to realize it’s all because of him.

He’s been so focused on his own negative feelings that he never stopped to think about what the situation must have felt like for Cesare. If Riccardo didn’t hate himself already for being so selfish, he definitely would now.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Riccardo’s voice breaks at the very first word. He’s forgotten all about his speech – all the _‘it’s not you it’s me’_ s and the _‘you deserve someone better’_ s and the _‘I hope we can stay friends’_ s – and all he’s left with are the too raw feelings of inadequacy and the selfish thoughts that haven’t left in alone in months. “I don’t want a relationship that only makes me miserable. I don’t want to keep waiting when I can’t find it in myself to believe you’re ever coming back.”

There are tears stinging his eyes and he needs to forcefully keep them from falling, because he doesn’t want Cesare to comfort him, not right now.

“I don’t want to push you into anything that’s not you. I never wanted to push you, I only wanted to be there for you,” —now the tears are falling, and Riccardo wipes them away furiously— “but I _hate_ it. I hate feeling like I only come second, or third, or just an afterthought… I want a relationship where I come first. And I know that’s selfish of me, and I hate myself because of it, but—” His voice breaks with the sudden sob that he cannot hold back any longer.

He’s looking down at his toes, forcing himself not to sob aloud even though he’s openly crying now, his sight blurring with tears and his nose running even as he tries to wipe it with the back of his hand.

“So that’s how you felt.” Cesare’s voice sounds constrained, like he’s fighting his own tears. Riccardo is the worst: he never meant to make Cesare feel like this is his fault. “Is this what you really want, Riccardo? To break up?”

“No!” Riccardo bursts out before he has time to consider his words. He tries again after taking a shuddering breath around the tears, “I don’t know. I just don’t want _this_. If it’s always gonna be this painful, then I think it’s better to just _stop_.”

Cesare walks over to where Riccardo is standing and cups his face between his hands, forcing Riccardo to look up and meet his eyes. There are tear tracks on Cesare’s face too, but there’s also the kind of determination in his eyes that reminds Riccardo why he loves this man so much, even now, even after all the suffering.

“You _do_ come first,” Cesare tells him, conviction behind in every word. “You’re the only thing that matters to me, Riccardo. You’re the first thing I think of in the morning and the last one in my mind before I fall asleep. I’ve already lost one love in my life – I don’t want to lose you, too. I think it might actually kill me.”

Cesare wipes the tears away from Riccardo’s face with gentle fingers, but that does no good because there are fresh tears still rolling down his cheeks and over Cesare’s hands.

“Then why do you keep leaving?” The question is no louder than a whisper.

Cesare kisses Riccardo’s cheek, a spot right below his left eye, and Riccardo knows he must be tasting the tears on his skin. “Because you told me I could. I would’ve never taken this job had you told me not to. By the time I realized what a terrible mistake I’d made, the season was underway, and it was too late to back off.”

“I didn’t want you to ruin your career because of me,” Riccardo whispers. The sobs are subsiding now, making it easier to talk, even if the tears aren’t stopping.

“ _Fuck_ my career,” Cesare counters immediately, the curse word sounding so out of place in Cesare’s mouth it makes Riccardo forget what he was about to say, which leaves the stage to Cesare to say his piece. “What makes you think I could ever choose my career over the man that I love? I wouldn’t mind even if I never coached another team again, as long as I can still have you.”

He presses a wet kiss against Riccardo’s mouth then, both their tears mixing on their lips. Riccardo finds himself gripping Cesare’s arms, so tight there will probably be finger marks on his skin later. He returns the kiss after only a moment’s hesitation, because he has no strength left to resist, not when Cesare keeps finding the exact words that Riccardo has been dying to hear.

“I love you,” Riccardo mouths against Cesare’s lips before kissing him again, because kissing Cesare is the only thing he’s found that actually manages to shut up his mind even for a moment.

“You’re my life, Riccardo,” Cesare assures him after the kiss that was even longer than the first one. His voice is steady and low, no sign of deceit in his words. “I couldn’t live without you. And more importantly, I don’t _want_ to live without you. You can be as selfish or insecure as you want, it’s not going to change how I feel.” Another kiss, this time just a peck on the lips. “But you need to _talk to me_. Please, just tell me what I need to do to stop you from leaving me.”

“Well, this is a really good, for a start.” Riccardo chuckles with humour that’s just barely there. He’s been through too much pain to manage more than that just yet. He presses their foreheads together and lets Cesare just hold him for a while longer.

“Does it help if I tell you I’m going to be sacked soon?” Cesare asks after a long moment of silence, while they just waited for the overwhelming feelings to settle. “It’s only a matter of time now, the management’s already looking for someone to replace me. It’s the only reason I didn’t walk out after London: my agent advised me to wait for them to rescind the contract.”

_That_ catches Riccardo’s attention. “So that means—?”

“I’ll be back soon. This time for good.” Cesare caresses Riccardo’s face gently. The tears have finally stopped. “I’m sorry I made you wait for so long. I promise I won’t do it again.”

Riccardo catches Cesare’s lips in another kiss before he has a chance to say anything else, arms wrapping around his neck in a tight hold, as if to make sure he’s not going anywhere, ever again.

He knows they’ll still have a lot of shit to figure out after this night is over – they both know it – but for that one moment, Riccardo just revels in the feeling of not thinking anything at all.


	19. Getting together

“Don’t you look cheerful today?” Giampi notes with a knowing grin when Riccardo joins the squad in the gym after his individual physio session. He’s been back with the team for over a month now, even getting playing minutes every now and then, but still there’s much to be done before he’s back in full fitness.

“Do I? Not more than usual, surely.” Riccardo goes for nonchalance as he spreads his yoga mat next to Giampi’s for stretching exercises.

“Considering your ‘usual’ has looked really damn miserable for months,” Giampi pokes Riccardo’s side gently and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, “yeah, I’d say it’s _much_ more than usual. Any specific reason? You know you can share.”

“What’re you expecting me to say?” Riccardo asks with a shrug that doesn’t convince anyone, especially not with the dreamy smile that accompanies the denial. “Maybe I’m just having a good day. It’s great to be back in training.”

Giampi isn’t letting the topic go that easily. “So, it has nothing to do with _Mister_ being back in Italy? Or the fact you’re finally getting regularly laid again?”

“Shut up!” Riccardo is laughing even as he says it, soft blush rising on his cheeks, so the exclamation doesn’t come across too strong. “And he’s not your coach anymore – or anyone’s, for that matter – so stop calling him that.”

“You’re not even denying the getting laid part,” Giampi singsongs, reaching out and ruffling Riccardo’s hair for the good measure. “Good on you, Ricky! You deserve all the _Mister_ -loving you can get.”

One of their athletic coaches clears his throat right next to them, as if to remind them they’re supposed to be stretching instead of gossiping about Riccardo’s sex life. Riccardo goes back to stretching his leg muscles with even brighter blush on his face, trying not to think how much of the conversation the coach actually heard.

“We should throw a ‘welcome back’ party for him,” Giampi continues as soon as the coach is out of earshot, “just something casual, you know. A simple get-together between the friends who know about you two. You could come over to my house. It’s been ages since Tommaso saw his favourite Uncle Ricky.”

“I could ask him,” Riccardo says noncommittally, rolling to his other side as instructed, so Giampi cannot see his face anymore. “Not making any promises, though.”

He doesn’t want to say it aloud, but he’s not quite ready to share Cesare’s attention with anyone else just yet. It had been hard enough to have Cesare’s children over in Milan for the weekend after Cesare flew back from Turkey. Messed up with the ‘getting laid regularly’ bit too, much to Riccardo’s annoyance.

“Oh, I get it.” Riccardo can hear the teasing smirk in Giampi’s voice even without looking at him. “No pressure. Just enjoy your new honeymoon.”

“I intend to,” Riccardo quips back and throws a sheepish smile in Giampi’s direction. Giampi only laughs in surprise when it registers that Riccardo just confirmed all his insinuations without so much as batting an eye.

 

 

As much as Riccardo loves being back in full training, he’s still even more excited to go home afterwards. Though really, who could blame him?

“I’m home!” he shouts from the door as he kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat by the door. Cesare’s voice greets him from the bedroom, and Riccardo finds him sitting back on the bed, legs straightened in front of him and back rested against a few pillows placed against the wall, an open book in his hands.

“How was your day?” Riccardo asks as he climbs into the bed, straddling Cesare’s thighs and plucking the book from his hands, laying it face first on the nightstand.

“Uneventful,” Cesare replies. His hands come to rest on Riccardo’s thighs, just high enough to give Riccardo some ideas of how they’re going the spend the rest of the evening. “But all the better now that you’re here.”

Riccardo kisses him, hands coming up to caress Cesare’s bearded face.

He’s not completely sold on the beard yet – it reminds him too much of the time they spent apart, something his brain immediately connects with Istanbul, because Cesare never let his beard grow out while he was still living in Italy – but it’s slowly growing onto him, especially after feeling the soft brush of it against his inner thighs a few nights ago.

“Giampi wants to arrange a get-together,” Riccardo tells Cesare when they break the kiss for air, their foreheads still pressed together, so close Riccardo can feel Cesare’s warm breath against his lips. “Nothing fancy, just a few friends. Might be nice.”

“Do you want to do it?” Cesare brushes a kiss against the corner of Riccardo’s mouth, the beard tickling Riccardo’s cheek.

“Not really,” Riccardo admits and cranes his neck, allowing Cesare to move his kisses down to his neck. “I’m terrible at sharing. You know that.”

“So, we’ll tell him to wait for a few weeks. Until Christmas break, perhaps?”

A few more weeks with Cesare all to himself. Riccardo can live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have you know I was _this_ close to just throwing all plot into wind for the sake of some beard porn, because I'm ridiculously attracted to [Cesare's beard](https://farm2.static.flickr.com/1875/30621594018_9005d3e06c_b.jpg) \-- and so is Riccardo, once he gets over the Istanbul trauma.
> 
> Anyways, I hope the amount of fluff in this one compensated at least some of the pain in previous chapters!


	20. Lazy morning

Cesare always wakes up before Riccardo. Always. There are no exceptions to this rule.

On the mornings when Riccardo needs to get up early to make it to the morning practice, there’s always a pot of freshly brewed coffee waiting for him in the kitchen, while Cesare himself sits by the table reading the morning paper or eating his own breakfast.

When Riccardo has a rare morning off, Cesare might swing by the nearby bakery and wake Riccardo up with breakfast in bed.

Other days, Riccardo will wake up to an empty bed, only to find Cesare in the living room ironing his white shirts for his upcoming appearance as football pundit for Sky Uno. It’s all very domestic, and Riccardo finds himself wishing Cesare could just sell his place in Florence and officially move in with him. Which is basically the situation even now, in everything but name.

The best mornings, though, are the ones when Cesare decides to stay in bed and watch Riccardo sleep. Those mornings, Riccardo usually wakes up to the feeling of Cesare’s lips on his forehead, his cheek, his lips, sometimes even a collarbone or a nipple, if Cesare’s feeling particularly daring.

This morning, it’s Riccardo’s bellybutton.

As always, Cesare whispers a gentle “Good morning” when he notices Riccardo is awake, before he proceeds to trace the lines of Riccardo’s abs with his lips, a brush of a two-day stubble rough against his bare skin – Riccardo almost finds himself missing the beard now that it’s gone – each kiss taking him lower, until he’s close enough to touch Riccardo where he actually needs it.

Instead, he stops, earning a frustrated whine from Riccardo, who’s still only half-awake.

“You’re so beautiful,” Cesare tells him in his softest voice, and then his touches move lower, down Riccardo’s thigh and over his knee, until he’s tracing the long surgery scar with his fingertips. Riccardo hates that scar; it’s ugly, but more importantly, it’s a tangible reminder of what he’s had to go through in the past year.

But Cesare only leans down and kisses the scar, the touch of his lips as gentle as ever, like reminding Riccardo that every part of him is important, even the ugly parts, even the parts Riccardo would much rather forget ever existed.

“You’re gorgeous, Riccardo,” Cesare tells him again, before he kisses the scar one more time, one of his hands finally sliding up his leg. “I’m so lucky to have you. Thank you for not giving up on us.”

Cesare’s lips follow the hand, until Riccardo can feel the scratch of his stubble against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. That’s as far as the thought goes, before Riccardo is left gasping for air, head thrown back against his pillows as Cesare takes him into his mouth.

It’s these lazy mornings that he always finds himself looking forward to, because during these mornings, Cesare will find all the time in the world to explore Riccardo’s body, to worship every sharp edge and forgotten scar, showing his love for Riccardo in actions rather than words.

In these lazy mornings, they will make love until the morning has turned into midday and Riccardo’s stomach starts grumbling for the lack of breakfast.

In these lazy mornings, Riccardo can actually convince himself that they will be forever.


	21. New beginning

Riccardo comes off the anaesthesia slowly, and for a moment he cannot even remember where he is or why. A nurse is talking to him in a soft voice, telling him all went according to plan and he should be fine to go home soon. He can just about see her smile above him.

His mind is sluggish with the anaesthetic and he literally cannot feel anything, probably because of all the painkillers in his system, but his brain is slowly picking up the cues around him, recognizing the hospital room: this isn’t the first time he wakes up in this particular room.

The bigger picture starts shaping itself in his head piece by piece: the pain in his leg coming back; the Milan team doctors all telling him it’s just muscle fatigue, nothing serious; the perpetual minor injuries until someone realized it could be related to the pins in his shinbone; and finally, the new surgery ending his miserable season ahead of time.

“Riccardo? Can you hear me?” Cesare’s voice penetrates his groggy state, pulling Riccardo’s attention to his right where Cesare is sitting next to the bed, both hands clutched around Riccardo’s. Riccardo can just barely feel the touch, his whole body numb with medication.

“Hey,” Riccardo greets him, his voice raspy and throat dry as sandpaper. Cesare offers him a sip of water through a straw without him needing to ask. “Did you wait here all this time? Was I out for long?”

Cesare looks like death warmed over, dark bags under his eyes and the lines on his face clearer than ever. Riccardo feels bad for making Cesare stay with him in the hospital, because he knows Cesare’s spent more than his fair share sitting at bedsides, supporting his loved ones – although to be fair, Riccardo never _asked_ him, Cesare had insisted on coming on his own.

“Not for too long. You were in and out of consciousness for a while – seemed like you were in a lot of pain – until they got the painkillers working and you started to come to.”

Riccardo can remember the pain now that Cesare mentions it, but his brain has probably blocked the details from his memory. Honestly, he’s relieved.

“How’re you feeling? Cold? Nauseous? You need me to get you anything?” Cesare offers him more water and Riccardo accepts it immediately, the cool liquid soothing his throat and making it easier to speak.

“Just tired, I guess,” he mumbles with an absent smile, his eyes drooping closed again. The room seems to be spinning around him. “Sorry for making you worry.”

“It’s not your fault. You’re just trying to get better.” Riccardo can feel a brush of Cesare’s lips on his forehead. For a second, he wonders where his nurse has disappeared, if she’s still in the room witnessing their private exchange. The thought is gone as quickly as it appears, and he’s left feeling grateful that Cesare is here with him.

He probably falls asleep again for a while, because when he opens his eyes again, the room looks much brighter, somehow different. Cesare is still there, though, sitting in that same chair, still holding Riccardo’s hand between his own.

“Sorry, did I fall asleep?” Riccardo grits out, his throat still protesting every word.

“For maybe twenty minutes,” Cesare informs him with a gentle smile.

Riccardo shifts in the bed, just enough to lie on his side and face Cesare properly. His limbs feel heavy, but at least he’s not in pain. “Can we go home soon?”

Cesare chuckles and brushes his lips against Riccardo’s softly. That must mean they’re alone in the room. Riccardo offers a tired smile in response to the kiss.

“When you’re awake enough to make it to the car,” Cesare answers his question and reaches out to stroke Riccardo’s hair. It makes Riccardo relax, almost enough to fall asleep again; the realization shakes him up, making him fully aware of his surroundings.

He doesn’t want to spend a minute more than necessary in this ghastly hospital room that’s probably making Cesare remember all kinds of horrible memories.

“I’m awake,” he insists, “let’s go home, Cesare.”

Cesare’s smile is knowing, like he can tell exactly what Riccardo’s thinking. “There’s no hurry. We both know you’re going to get better only with time, so better not rush it unnecessarily.” He kisses Riccardo’s forehead again for good measure. “I’ll be fine, as long as you are. Don’t waste your energy worrying over me.”

“You always worry about me, though,” Riccardo says quietly, instinctively leaning into the touch when Cesare cups his cheek with his hand. His other hand stays entwined with Riccardo’s. “You need to stop doing that. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Cesare assures him, gentle fingers stroking Riccardo’s cheek. “I just want to make sure you’ll be fine. That’s all that matters right now. That you’re healthy and we can truly put this last year behind us.”

“You’re too good for me,” Riccardo tells him, his eyes almost drooping again before he catches himself, focusing his gaze on Cesare’s face. “I’ll try to be better, too. Not to make you worry so much. Next year will be better, I promise.”

Cesare lifts the straw to Riccardo’s lips again, making sure he drinks some more. It’s painfully obvious to Riccardo how many times Cesare’s done this before, taking care of someone recovering from surgery. “Next year will be better.” The word’s echo Riccardo’s own, but from Cesare’s lips they somehow seem more convincing.

“A fresh start. I like that.” Riccardo’s words are slurring again, exhaustion catching up with him. He can’t fall asleep, damn it; he wants to go home so he can curl up in bed with Cesare, warm and safe and loved. The first day of the rest of their life together.

He falls asleep again despite his best efforts to stay awake. The last thing he hears before slipping out of consciousness are Cesare’s whispered words, “Sleep well, Riccardo. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're not as invested in Monto's life as I am: his last surgery related to the 2014 broken leg took place in early May 2015, almost a year after the incident.


	22. Routine

New season starts, and Riccardo finds himself enjoying the new routine he didn’t know was missing from his life.

He’s back to full fitness – _finally_ – training full time, back to playing in the starting line-up. He knows Coach Mihajlovic, who also had Riccardo’s back when he was struggling during his last year in Fiorentina. He knows his teammates, too, and they know him: he finally feels like he belongs again, after a full year of watching from the sidelines.

He misses having Giampi around, of course, but this is not the first time they’ve been separated by club decisions. He knows Giampi is still there for him, a mere phone call away in Verona.

The best part is their new routine at home:

waking up to the smell of fresh coffee and a shared breakfast;

coming back home to dinner table being set – sometimes Cesare cooks himself, other times he’s picked up take away, but he’s always there waiting without a fail when Riccardo gets home;

talking about their respective days over dinner;

cuddling on the sofa while watching TV or some movie;

going to bed together at a reasonable time, sometimes making love, other times just falling asleep entangled in each other’s embrace.

The routine is usually broken only during weekends, when Riccardo is forced to stay in Milanello, while Cesare is busy with his TV and radio commitments.

Sometimes Cesare’s gone during the weekdays too, analyzing some Champions League or Europa League match. Milan’s not in any European competitions, so Riccardo usually has those nights off; he spends them eating take away straight from the container, watching Cesare on the TV, and staying up too late waiting for him to get home.

Every once in a while, Riccardo still feels guilty for holding Cesare back. He knows there are coaching offers for him: from China, from Dubai, even from Spain and Italy. Cesare never considers those for long before turning the clubs down.

At the same time, he’s finding it hard to feel bad, when he’s never felt more content with his relationship. It makes him feel like he’s _normal_ , just like any other player living with a family, a wife, or a girlfriend. There are times when he almost forgets they’re supposed to be hiding their relationship from the world, because being with Cesare feels so natural.

But then he listens to another radio interview with Cesare, this one concerning racism and homophobia in Serie A, and he’s bitterly reminded they’re still not where they want to be. Cesare answers the questions, speaks truthfully of his feelings toward the matter, but still he’s talking like an outsider, as someone who these things don’t touch on a personal level.

They both know Cesare wouldn’t be invited to those interviews if the public knew the truth.

There’s still so much to do, and Cesare has so much more to give – Riccardo realizes this not for the first time as he watches Cesare on TV, this time as a pundit for Juventus’ latest Champions League match. He has so much knowledge to share, but he’s stuck in Milan with Riccardo, only doing occasional appearances on TV, when he really should be out there coaching a full team.

“When you get the next offer,” Riccardo says that night when they’re lying in bed, Riccardo’s head pillowed on Cesare’s chest, where he can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, “you should stop and consider it. You’ve so much more to give, and I’m selfishly hogging you all to myself.”

“What’re you saying, Riccardo?” Cesare chuckles, and Riccardo can feel the vibrations against his cheek. “We’ve had this talk before: you can be as selfish as you want. I don’t even miss coaching.”

“Yes, you do!” Riccardo argues, his voice soft but firm, because he’s learned by now to recognize when Cesare’s lying for his sake.

He turns to lie on his stomach and lifts his head, so he can look Cesare in the eye. “I’m not telling you to go to China or something. That’s too damn far.” He pecks Cesare’s lips to assure him he’s not saying this only to make Cesare feel better about possibly leaving. “I’m only saying, don’t dismiss the idea completely just for my sake. Think about it. _Talk to me_. We can figure it out together.”

Cesare is smiling at Riccardo, his hand coming up to stroke Riccardo’s hair. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to live on my own anymore. I’ve grown so used to having you around.”

“You can always come back,” Riccardo whispers and kisses him again, gentle and full of promise, “I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be right here to welcome you back with open arms if it doesn’t work out.”

“And you’ll also tell me if _you_ can’t handle it?”

“ _Yes_.” Riccardo rests his head on Cesare’s chest again, his ear pressed over his heart, listening to the steady beat. “It doesn’t have to be that far. You could stay in Italy. Or Spain, I like Spain. We could still see each other almost every week.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Cesare tells him quietly, arms wrapping around Riccardo’s waist, exhaustion seeping into his every word. “The season’s long, and there’s no guarantees there’ll be any coaching jobs open before next year. We’ve got time to figure it out.”

“Good,” Riccardo replies, sleep finally taking a hold of his body, making his limbs feel heavy, “then I’ll have a few more months when I don’t need to share you with anyone.”

“You never have to do that,” Cesare reminds him gently, “I’m yours, wholly; that’s not going to change no matter who I coach.”

Riccardo presses a kiss over Cesare’s heart, as if to seal the deal.


	23. Sharing secrets

“I’m tired of hiding, Giampi.”

Riccardo has never said it out loud before, not even to Cesare. _Especially_ not to Cesare.

He can barely remember the time he didn’t need to pretend he was something he’s not – he’s been hiding ever since he was eleven years old and first realized he didn’t like girls the same way the rest of his teammates did – and with each passing day, it’s getting harder the keep his feelings to himself.

Giampi is looking straight at him, holding his gaze, but it takes him a long time to say anything. They’re sitting in the living room of Giampi’s new house in Verona, and Riccardo can’t remember feeling this vulnerable around his best friend since he came out to him over five years ago.

“Oh, Ricky,” Giampi finally says, a heavy sigh following the words, “I wish I could just tell you to go for it. You deserve it, more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Riccardo smiles humourlessly, glancing down at his hands. He knows what’s coming next. “But?”

Giampi waits until Riccardo looks up and meets his eyes again, no deceit in his gaze, and Riccardo can tell it pains him to say it as much as it pains Riccardo to hear it. “You know how these things go, in football. There’re people who speak out, who keep saying it’s about time someone came out— but if someone actually did it? All hell would break loose. The fans, the media, the other players… Fuck, you know yourself Berlusconi would never let you wear a Milan jersey again!”

“I know,” Riccardo answers in a small voice, picking up his coffee cup from the table and taking a sip to hide his frown. Trust Giampi to always be brutally honest with him. It’s one of the reasons Riccardo loves him, but it’s also something he wishes Giampi could tone down a bit every once in a while.

“Have you talked to Cesare?” Giampi asks when he realizes Riccardo has no intention of saying anything else.

“Nah.” Riccardo shrugs with one shoulder, staring at the black liquid in his cup. He’s regretting he said anything at all, because talking about it makes it more real – when he says these things aloud, he can’t keep pretending it’s only a matter of courage. “It’s not like I could ask him to do it even if I did. He’s sacrificed so much for my sake already.”

“Ricky,” Giampi says, and his voice reminds Riccardo of the berating tone he used on his toddler son earlier, when he was throwing a temper tantrum over not wanting to take a nap. It makes Riccardo look up and meet his gaze. “ _Talk to him_. I’ve seen what you can do to yourself by holding things inside. Trust me, he would want to know.”

“But what good would it do?” Riccardo snaps, the old insecurities raising their ugly heads as soon as he gives them any room to grow. “Neither of us can come out without causing a scandal or dragging the other out of the closet too. We’re stuck hiding and talking about it is only going to make it feel more real. More painful.”

“But it _is_ real to you.” Giampi reaches over and clutches the back of Riccardo’s neck with strong fingers, forcing him to hold the eye contact he’d much rather avoid. “And it’s real to Cesare, too. You can hear it from the way he talks about these things. He hates hiding his feelings from the world as much as you do, if not more.”

Riccardo remembers Cesare’s words, telling him he’d give up his whole career willingly, if it meant he could have Riccardo.

They do have each other, even if they never told another living soul about their relationship, Riccardo reminds himself.

Cesare’s the only person in his life who’s always known Riccardo for who he is, with no pretences or lies. Cesare’s also the one who’s always been honest with his feelings in their relationship, ever since he figured out what those feelings were. It’s Riccardo who’s been hiding, pretending, and speaking half-truths.

One of the reasons why he hasn’t yet told Cesare he’s been entertaining the idea of coming out, is because he knows Cesare would do it: he would tell the whole world if Riccardo asked it of him.

“It sometimes scares me,” he admits to Giampi, leaning into the firm touch against his neck, “to be loved so much. It feels like I can never measure up. I’m afraid he’s going to wake up one day and realize he’s been wasting his time with me, when he could’ve been with someone who could offer him so much more.”

“Ricky, you know I love you,” Giampi tells him resolutely, his hold on Riccardo tightening momentarily, “but you’re an absolute moron. You know that, right?”

Riccardo laughs bitterly and leans his forehead against Giampi’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I don’t think you do. Not really.” Giampi lets Riccardo hide his face against his sweater, wrapping his free arm around his shoulders to pull him into a proper hug. “You only see all the things Cesare’s given to you. But _you’re_ the one who brought him out of the darkness after his wife’s death – even _I_ remember how much of a mess he was, and we’ve never been that close.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re together. He always seems to wonder how he got so lucky, just to have you next to him. I know you don’t see it, because you keep expecting for something to go wrong. But it is there, clear as a day.”

Hearing those words is painful and soothing at the same time, because Giampi’s never lied to him.

Giampi kisses the top of his head gently and finishes the thought, “Maybe you should try putting more faith into your relationship? Because I can tell you I’ve never seen a couple more in love. You deserve each other, and more importantly, you deserve to be happy. So, _talk to him_.”

Riccardo sniffles against Giampi’s chest, eyes closed and breathing steady. They both know Giampi just put into words what Riccardo knew already, but needed to hear nonetheless.

“Okay,” Riccardo whispers against the soft fabric of Giampi’s sweater, “I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Giampi.”

Their talk is cut short, because right then Tommaso pats into the living room, the sound of his bare feet against tiled floor alerting them of his presence.

The toddler walks over to them and climbs into Riccardo’s lap without preamble, still rubbing sleep from his eyes after his too short nap.

“Don’t be sad, Uncle Ricky.”

That breaks the tension for Riccardo, who bursts out laughing and hugs the tiny human against his chest, kissing the top of his head just like Giampi did to him only moments earlier. “I’m not sad. How could I ever be sad when you’re here to have my back?”

He meets Giampi’s eyes over Tommaso’s head and offers him a grateful smile. They both know the words, while directed at the son, ring true also for the father.


	24. Going public

Cesare gets a call from his agent.

This in itself is not unusual: there are always occasional offers coming in from different clubs, national teams, or television and radio stations that Cesare will have to approve or decline personally.

However, this time his agent only asks him to come to the office, which must mean it’s a big deal – most likely a large money contract from a big team, or something unusual, something they don’t have a protocol in place for and it therefore needs to be agreed with Cesare in person.

There might also be some kind of scandal brewing under the surface, but Riccardo can’t think of anything Cesare might have done to warrant such reaction – their relationship notwithstanding, obviously.

If it was about them, Riccardo’s phone would also be ringing, so he figures he can breathe easily.

“Maybe some big shot coach got fired?” Riccardo guesses as Cesare pulls on his coat and kisses him goodbye. “And now they’re gonna make you an offer you absolutely _cannot_ refuse.”

“I can refuse them all I want,” Cesare chuckles and picks up the car keys – they’re for Riccardo’s car, since Cesare’s own is at the shop for maintenance. They’re well past caring about details like that, anyways, as long as Riccardo doesn’t need to be in Milanello, in which case he’d be forced to take his sponsored vehicle. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t burn the place down!”

Riccardo sticks out his tongue. He’d promised to make dinner today, due to Cesare’s earlier commitments and his own day off. “I’m a grown man, I should be able to cook a simple pasta.”

“I’ve seen you cooking before. It wasn’t pretty,” Cesare reminds him, a teasing tilt in his tone, and then he kisses the top of Riccardo’s head one more time before heading out, leaving Riccardo lounging on his armchair with his book.

“Love you too!” Riccardo informs him just before the door clicks shut, leaving him alone in the too quiet apartment. He searches through his playlists on his phone and suddenly the stereos are blasting with Depeche Mode – Cesare isn’t that fond of Riccardo’s choices of music in general, so it’s only at moments like this when he can actually listen to what he likes without his headphones.

Riccardo tries to go back to reading, but his concentration is lost, and he finds himself reading the same line over and over again. His mind goes back to Cesare’s meeting – what if this is it? What if Cesare finally gets an offer he will actually consider? What if he leaves Riccardo again?

The thought of Cesare leaving isn’t nearly as painful as it was back when he took the Galatasaray job, probably because Riccardo is healthy now, with his own career to worry about.

It’s not as painful, but it’s also not _painless_.

At least he knows now that Cesare _will_ come back if he asks him to – it’s taken him ages to come to terms with the idea, but finally Riccardo is ready to accept Cesare’s assurances that their relationship will always come first.

_But how far are you willing to go?_

The more Riccardo thinks about it – putting Cesare ahead of his career – the clearer it becomes to him that no matter how many times they declare their love for each other in private, their careers will always take the front seat unless they come out publicly.

They have talked about it – Riccardo had taken Giampi’s advice to heart, and Cesare had taken it really well when the topic came up – but for the time being they’ve agreed it’s not the best course of action for either of them.

_“It’s one thing to put your relationship ahead of your career, and a completely different thing to throw away your whole career because of your relationship.”_

As long as there’s a choice – as long as they can stay together without jeopardizing their careers – then that’s the choice they need to make.

_“But if it ever comes to choosing between you and my career, you know my answer.”_

Riccardo also knows his own answer. He would choose Cesare, every time, a hundred times over if need be.

Riccardo knows this is how it needs to be, it’s the sensible choice, but it doesn’t mean he needs to like it. He hates not being able to show his feelings for Cesare in public; he hates attending sponsor events alone when all the other players have their significant others with them; he hates lying in the interviews when they ask about his plans for the future, about marriage, about children…

_Personal Jesus_ is blasting on the stereos when Riccardo finally abandons his book and heads for the kitchen and starts preparing the _carbonara_.

It’s another thing he hates: that they need to stay at home if they want to have a romantic evening together, because out there, no matter where they go, there are always curious eyes following them. It’s unfair, it’s frustrating, and it’s slowly driving Riccardo crazy.

He’s grating the cheese, pot of water boiling on the stove, when Cesare comes back – at least half an hour earlier than Riccardo was expecting him – and the look on Cesare’s face makes him stop what he’s doing immediately.

“You should probably sit down,” Cesare tells him in a soft voice as he walks over and turns the gas off from the stove. He doesn’t _seem_ that worried, but Riccardo knows Cesare’s used to holding back his emotions for the sake of Riccardo’s anxieties.

“What is it? You’re not moving to China, are you?” Riccardo tries to keep his tone light even as panic courses through him.

“It’s nothing bad,” Cesare assures him quickly, taking a hold of Riccardo’s shoulders and pecking his lips reassuringly. “It’s just something I need to run by you, and we can’t do that if you’re in the process of burning our kitchen down.”

Riccardo pouts, which only works to invite Cesare to kiss him again before he pulls Riccardo along to sit by the dining table. He doesn’t sit across from Riccardo, instead preferring the seat next to him, so he can rest his hand on Riccardo’s thigh comfortingly.

Riccardo waits, sitting absolutely still as all the worst-case scenarios run through his overwhelmed mind. Suddenly the idea of Cesare taking another coaching job doesn’t seem like such a good idea after all.

“It’s— a book deal,” Cesare finally admits with a forced chuckle. He squeezes Riccardo’s thigh and Riccardo has a feeling he’s doing it more for his own sake than Riccardo’s. “Remember when I wrote the preface for that book about homosexuality in sports? It’s the same journalist, he wants to publish my biography.”

Of course, Riccardo remembers that book: it’s the scandal that followed them to Poland in 2012, the one that drove Cassano up the walls, and finally led to Riccardo and Cesare’s relationship being discovered by the rest of the squad.

“What kind of book? Like the one Pirlo published, with a few cute anecdotes over the years, or—?”

Cesare shakes his head with a laugh – he’d written a preface for that book too – his hand rubbing Riccardo’s thigh almost too heavily. Riccardo can’t remember the last time Cesare seemed this completely out of words.

“It’s mostly about my career, as a footballer and as a coach, and about Manuela, how her illness and passing has affected me,” Cesare isn’t meeting Riccardo’s gaze, and he sucks in a long breath before he finally finishes the sentence,

“—and about you. About us.”

It takes a moment for Riccardo to realize what Cesare’s words mean, because even after years of being together, the idea of someone else – an outsider – knowing about them feels absurd.

“So, he knows about us? This journalist?” Riccardo needs to ask, needs to make sure he’s not misunderstanding something and freaking out over nothing. “ _How_?”

Cesare looks so helpless when he finally meets Riccardo’s eyes, and Riccardo can’t handle that look, so he closes the gap between them and kisses the answer off Cesare’s lips, hands cupping his face gently. Another song comes on the stereos, and Riccardo knows Cesare hates this song, but neither of them makes a move to turn off the music.

“He didn’t expressly say your name,” Cesare explains, his voice strangled like he’s about to cry. “But he definitely knows I’m in a serious relationship with a man, so the chances are he also knows it’s you.”

Riccardo gets up from his chair and slips into Cesare’s lap without asking for permission, wrapping his arms around Cesare’s neck and kissing his temple, his nose pressed into his soft, greying hair. ”So, he knows.” He combs his fingers through Cesare’s hair, messing the slicked-back curls back into more natural look. “But this guy— he’s never outed anyone against their will, has he? Not by name, anyways.”

“He said he wouldn’t,” Cesare agrees, his arms wound around Riccardo’s waist to pull him even closer. “But I’m not sure what he’s going to do if I refuse to cooperate. It’s his job to write what he finds out, after all. At least if I go along with the book project, I might be able to keep your name off the papers.”

_How far are you willing to go?_

“You don’t need to,” Riccardo tells him, his voice steady even as his heartbeat doubles, fear and anxiety and excitement all mixing together. “If you come out, so will I. That’s what we agreed. I’m not about to send you to the wolves alone, we’re in this together.”

Cesare looks like he wants to argue. He’s always been so much more concerned about Riccardo’s wellbeing than his own. Riccardo kisses him again before he has a chance to say anything.

“ _You_ come first,” Riccardo reminds him as they break the kiss, lips ghosting over Cesare’s, hands caressing his cheek and neck reassuringly. “It’s not a matter of choice. I intend to be here long after both our careers are over. Might as well go out with a bang.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Riccardo,” Cesare tells him, lifting one hand to brush off a curl of stray hair from Riccardo’s eyes. “You sure about this?”

“Nope,” Riccardo cracks a smile and presses their foreheads together, “but a book’s not something that’s finished in a week. We’ll have time to figure it out.” Another kiss, just a brush of lips against lips. “At least this way we’ll have some control over what comes out, right?”

“I keep forgetting what a wise head you have on your shoulders,” Cesare whispers against his lips, and now he’s smiling too. “Maybe you should use it more often?”

“Oy,” Riccardo snaps and hits Cesare over the head playfully. “See if I’ll even cook for you again with that attitude.”

“Cook what? I don’t see any dinner on the table. And what’s that ruckus coming from the stereos?”

“Why do I put up with you?” Riccardo huffs and jumps up from Cesare’s lap, throwing his hands up theatrically for good measure. He walks back to the kitchen counter where the half-grated cheese is waiting to be finished. He also turns on the stove again – he needs to boil the pasta water all over again, great.

Cesare follows him after a moment, wrapping his arms around Riccardo’s waist from behind. He doesn’t turn off the stereos, which is a bit of a surprise, but it also helps Riccardo relax again after the shock news, so he’s not complaining.

“I love you so much, Riccardo,” Cesare says it right into Riccardo’s ear, the confession making shivers run down his spine even if it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. “I’m sorry for messing everything up for you.”

Riccardo can’t help but smile as he replies, “You didn’t mess anything up. We knew this was going to happen.” He starts grating the cheese again, careful not to cut his fingers in the process. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I mean, who knows, right? Maybe we’re wrong and the world’s actually ready for us.”

He doesn’t believe it himself, and he can tell Cesare isn’t buying it either. Cesare doesn’t voice any of his doubts aloud, though, he only kisses Riccardo’s neck and agrees quietly, “Yes, we’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, it's been years since I last wrote an actual coming out fic. This is gonna be fun.
> 
> Riccardo liking Depeche Mode comes from one of his earlier interviews as Milan player, can't remember which one. It just stuck in my head because Depeche Mode also happens to be one of the most prominent artists on my own ficcing playlist. Talk about a coincidence, huh?


	25. Turning point

Cesare takes the job in Valencia.

He says it might be his last chance to work as a coach before the book is finished. He says Valencia is close, only two hours by plane, so he can fly back to Milan every week to see Riccardo. He says he wants to do this for both their sakes, in order not to have any regrets once it’s too late to turn back.

Riccardo doesn’t try to stop him, because they both know once the book is out, Cesare will be hard-pressed to get another offer like this – if any. He hides the tiny bit of hurt under a bright smile and tells Cesare to go for it, break a leg.

“I _am_ going to miss you, though,” Riccardo tells Cesare, his smile not faltering, “just so you know. I’ll probably be a hot mess for a while. But I’ll survive.”

“Trust me, I know.” Cesare brushes a strand of hair behind Riccardo’s ear and leans in to kiss him gently. “I’m going to miss you, too. I’d take you with me if I could. But apparently Milan still needs its captain.”

“For now,” Riccardo agrees in a small voice, his mind immediately going back to the book that’s scheduled to be published by next summer. “Gotta make the best of it, right?”

He meets Cesare’s eyes reluctantly, more than aware Cesare can probably guess what he’s thinking about. Coming out has never felt this real – always just an abstract idea of something that might happen sometime in the distant future – but now there’s a date set, a deadline to meet, and it’s really fucking scary.

“We can still call it off, you know.” Cesare’s talking about the book, not Valencia. “Your name won’t be mentioned in any case; we can still figure out a way to keep you out of the storm. Just say the word and I’ll take care of it.”

Cesare’s still acting like they’re not well past the last point of return. This is the direction they’ve been headed ever since they got together, over 6 years ago, and there’s no way Riccardo is going to let Cesare follow that path alone.

“I promised Manuela I wouldn’t let you go on alone,” Riccardo says softly, the name of Cesare’s wife falling off his lips with surprising ease. It’s this promise he keeps coming back to, whenever he starts doubting their relationship. “Because you’re useless on your own. And so am I.” He chuckles humourlessly even as he entwines their fingers gently. “There’s only one road left for us.”

Cesare goes to Valencia, with Riccardo’s blessing and a promise to come back soon.

Riccardo takes a day off from practice – family emergency – and flies to Valencia only two days later, to help Cesare get settled in his new house. It feels odd, to see all Cesare’s things here instead of the apartment they have shared for so long.

But Cesare is still the same, his embrace warm and familiar, and it makes Riccardo feel safe. It reminds him this is a path they have chosen together, and there’s no turning back now, if there ever was.

 

 

(Riccardo flies back to Milan next morning at first light, ready to join his teammates in training.

A week later, he’s lying in a hospital bed with ruptured ACL. He’s never missed Cesare more.)


	26. Learning from experience

If there’s one thing Riccardo has learned from his broken leg in 2014, it’s that he doesn’t cope well with being left alone with his own negative thoughts.

He talks to Cesare over the phone before his ACL surgery, and then again afterwards, once he’s fully awake from the anaesthesia and missing Cesare so much it physically hurts – or maybe it’s just his knee hurting, who knows at this point?

“Maybe I should just stop dreaming about the national team,” Riccardo says on the phone, bitter and tired after his operation, but not tired enough to hang up and catch some more sleep. “Whenever I start getting more confident, I immediately get hurt. Maybe I’m just not cut out for it anymore.”

“Nonsense,” Cesare tells him resolutely, and Riccardo can hear the frustration in his voice – the frustration of not being there for Riccardo, just like last time – “you’ve still got plenty to give for them. You’re just unlucky, that’s all.”

“Unlucky would be a sprained ankle or some shit,” Riccardo grumbles, a persistent yawn pushing its way out of his chest, “but another six-month injury? That’s a fucking curse.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny? Or curses, for that matter?”

“Now’s as good a time as any to start believing.”

“I wish I could be there,” Cesare tells him softly, and his tone feels like an invisible caress. It makes Riccardo want to cry, unshed tears stinging his eyes.

“I know,” Riccardo replies, and Cesare can probably hear he’s only a step away from crying, his voice strangled and thin. “It’s okay, I know you’re busy with the team.”

Cesare is back in Milan two days later, citing family emergency and leaving the team in the care of his assistant.

This time Riccardo really does cry, the tears falling before he can even reach Cesare in the hallway, limping over with his crutches and then abandoning them in favour of collapsing all his weight into Cesare’s tight embrace.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he sniffles against Cesare’s shoulder, voice trembling with the sobs he can’t quite hold back. He didn’t cry when he got injured, not even after the initial shock wore off, because he’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started.

Now it doesn’t matter even if he cries until the end of the world, as long as Cesare is here to hold him.

“Where else would I be?” Cesare asks gently, rocking Riccardo in his arms, careful not to make any sudden movements that might force Riccardo to lean his weight on his injured leg.

 _You could be not here._ Riccardo’s mind quips, but he doesn’t say anything out loud. _You could’ve left me alone, just like last time._

He hates himself for even thinking about it. He should know better by now.

“Thank you,” he whispers into Cesare’s shirt, so quiet he’s not sure if Cesare even hears him. Cesare kisses the top of his head, the gesture comforting; it leaves a warm feeling inside Riccardo’s chest even as he keeps crying silently against the soft fabric.

“I can’t stay for long,” Cesare tells him once he has half-led, half-carried Riccardo back to the living room couch. He helps Riccardo to straighten his leg on the cushions, and then sits down next to him, allowing Riccardo to lean his head against his shoulder. “I need to be back in Valencia in two days’ time.”

He squeezes Riccardo’s hand reassuringly before Riccardo can protest and kisses his temple for good measure. “I’ve booked you a ticket for the same flight, if you’d like to join me. You won’t be able to start physio just yet anyways, so it doesn’t really matter where you spend your sick leave, right?”

“I’d like that,” Riccardo replies and cranes his neck until he can look at Cesare’s face. The angle is odd, but at least he can see Cesare’s sheepish smile. Riccardo has no idea why Cesare would even bother to ask him – of course he wants to go with him, to be where Cesare is.

Cesare leans in, and they can just about brush their lips together despite the uncomfortable angle. “It’s settled, then. I’ll help you pack up your things tomorrow. There’s not a chance I’m going to let you push yourself unnecessarily.”

“Stop babying me. It’s not the first time I’ve been injured,” Riccardo whines softly, but the smile on his face reveals he actually likes it, being fussed over by Cesare.

After suffering through the broken leg alone two years earlier, it’s actually a relief to realize how far they’ve come:

Riccardo in admitting he really does need someone – Cesare – there to kiss it better;

and Cesare in realizing Riccardo would never ask for it out loud, so the only option is to make the decision for him.


	27. Compromise

“It’s not that I don’t want you there—” Cesare’s voice trails off. He’s avoiding Riccardo’s gaze, like he knows he’s the one in the wrong.

“But you don’t want me there?” Riccardo completes the sentence with a roll of his eyes.

It’s an argument that’s been going on for weeks, and Riccardo is _still_ pissed off over Cesare going behind his back and arranging the press conference on his own, without even asking for Riccardo’s opinion first.

“I just don’t want to put you in the centre of the shit storm,” Cesare tries to explain, but his excuses are falling short. This is something they were supposed to do together – that’s what they had agreed right from the beginning – and now he’s leaving Riccardo out. “You’re still recovering from the injury. It’ll be too easy for them to push you out of the team if you come out now. It’s better to wait.”

“That’s not your choice to make!” Riccardo snaps, his tone forcing Cesare to look up at him, fierce eyes meeting regretful ones. “It’s my career and it’s up to me to decided what I do with it.” He bites his lip, the anger waning when he sees Cesare flinching at his words. “I promised you I’d be there for you. Why are you pushing me away now?”

“I’m not!” Cesare insists, his voice resolute and heavy, eyes pleading for Riccardo to understand. Riccardo refuses the plea, because there’s no way he can ever understand. He feels betrayed, and it’s a completely new feeling when it comes to Cesare.

“You should’ve asked me,” he whispers and swallows back a knot that’s blocking his throat, making him feel like he’s about to cry even though his eyes remain dry.

“I’ve been _trying_ to,” Cesare answers with a heavy sigh, and he’s pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I’ve been trying to tell you: I don’t want you throwing away the last healthy years of your career for my sake.” He meets Riccardo’s eyes again, decisive even in the face of Riccardo’s anger. “It might not be long before they figure out it’s you. But can’t you just let me shield you from the first outbreak? Just until you’re back playing again, so it won’t be that easy to force you out?”

Riccardo is shaking his head stubbornly, even though he knows it’s too late to argue about this. The press conference is happening in only a few short hours, and both Riccardo’s agent and Cesare have told him in no-nonsense terms he’s not to attend. “I don’t want you to do it on your own. It’s too much, they’re gonna say all those hurtful things, and you’re telling you don’t want me there to share the burden—”

“I _do_ want you there,” Cesare exclaims immediately, interrupting Riccardo’s outburst before he can even raise his voice. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to have you there by my side. But I don’t want to drag you out there just for my own benefit, knowing it’s going to ruin every chance you have at coming out _without_ throwing your career out of the window.”

“Then _let_ _me_ _be there_.” Now it’s Riccardo’s turn to plead. “I won’t have to be on the stage if you don’t want me there. Just let me be there in the backstage, with Carolina and Nicolò.” He takes a hold of Cesare’s hand and pulls it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. “I can take my own car in and out, the press won’t even know I’m there. Just let me have that much. Let me be your strength.”

“Silly boy,” Cesare breathes out, a sad smile turning the corners of his lips upwards, “you already _are_ my strength; always have been. No press conference is ever going to change that.”

At 32 years of age, Riccardo thinks he’s well past the age of being called a boy, but Cesare never seems to remember that. Riccardo doesn’t comment on it, though, not this time. He only kisses Cesare’s hand again, lips trailing from his knuckles to the back of his hand and then to his wrist, until Cesare’s palm is pressed against his cheek, and he can turn his head just slightly to kiss the palm too.

“So, does that mean I can come?”

Cesare takes a deep breath, finally giving up the struggle under Riccardo’s relentless gaze and the softest of kisses fluttering against his fingertips. “ _Yes_ , you can come. But only if you promise to stay out of sight. I promise you, we’ll have plenty of time to fight the media off once they figure out we’re living together.”

“I guess we’ve got a deal, then.” It’s not quite what Riccardo wanted, but it’s close enough. As long as he can stay close to Cesare, close enough to catch him if he falters.

He holds Cesare’s hand against his cheek for a few more moments longer, kissing the calloused skin over and over again. He can’t even tell which one of them needs the comfort more. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

 

(There’s one line during Cesare’s press conference that really sticks with Riccardo for weeks and months to come, among all the confusion and accusations, derogatory comments and genuine questions, and journalists’ relentless attempts to make Cesare reveal who his ‘secret lover’ is.

It goes something like this:

“Let me tell you, my partner’s the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.

“I thank God every single day for bringing him into my life. I feel I’m truly blessed for getting to experience this great love for the second time.

“But more importantly, I thank _him_ for never giving up on me, for stubbornly staying by my side even when I was at my worst.

“It’s all I can do to stay strong for him as well – to stay honest – because he’s saved my life so many times.

“He’s always been my strength. Now it’s my turn to be his.”)


	28. Worst day ever

“Is this true?”

It feels like the text on the paper is mocking Riccardo by its sheer existence.

He knows that technically, its existence is a good thing, all things considered: it was only through the connections of Milan’s press department that they managed to get this heads-up before the exposé was actually printed.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting to rip the report draft into tiny pieces and pretend he never saw it.

“Which part?” he asks instead of answering straight up, a bitter smile on his lips. “The one where they claim I got the Fiorentina captaincy by sleeping with the coach? Or the one where they claim Cesare’s been grooming me for sex since I was seven years old?”

Fassone is avoiding his gaze, even as Riccardo tries to stare him down, challenging him to say anything about his relationship. “How about we start from the fact that you’re— together?”

“Yes, we are.” Riccardo is almost surprised how easily the admission comes out.

He’d known this was coming, sooner or later. There’s only so much he and Cesare can do when one of them is officially out and the media knows what to look for.

It has been a little blessing that both their addresses are unlisted (or their _one shared address_ , as things stand) and the security of their apartment building is top-notch, so they’ve been able to avoid detection by simply leaving the house at different times and always taking their own cars instead of borrowing each other’s like they used to do.

But despite their subtle ways of hiding the truth, it had been only a matter of time. But now that the time has come, Riccardo realizes he might not be ready for it.

“You should probably skip this week’s training. We can make it seem like an injury, to keep the chatter down for the time being.”

Fassone looks more uncomfortable than Riccardo has ever seen him, and Riccardo’s hopes that this new Milan management might take his sexuality better than the previous one would have – he knows for a fact there’s going to be a backlash from Berlusconi’s camp, even if he doesn’t own Milan anymore – are crushed under the realization that there’s no club management in Italy that will ever take his side in such matter.

“Instead of what? Actually admitting you have a faggot for a captain?”

The word tastes foul even in Riccardo’s own mouth, and the new managing director of Milan visibly flinches at his biting tone. Riccardo knows he’s doing a great job at ensuring he will not be wearing the armband this coming season, but he can’t stop himself from lashing out. It’s the only way he knows, to cover up how scared he actually is.

“No, it’s not about you being— like that.” Fassone is still not looking at Riccardo, confirming to him all over again that _that’s_ exactly what this is about.

“Gay,” Riccardo corrects him, “I’m gay, you’re allowed to say that.”

Fassone takes a deep breath and finally looks up, an unhappy frown marring his face. “This is _not_ about your sexuality, Montolivo. It’s about protecting the rest of the team from unwanted media coverage. It’s about ensuring the preparations for the season won’t be unnecessarily interrupted.”

Riccardo rolls his eyes, not buying the excuses for a second. As a two-time club captain, he’s met his fair share of football executives that will never admit to their homophobia out loud but won’t be afraid to show it in actions when they know they have the whole federation tacitly backing them.

“ _Of course_ it’s about my sexuality,” he bites out, grabbing the paper from the table and rumpling it inside his first. “You wouldn’t push me out of the squad if there was a scoop about me living with a woman. Hell, that wouldn’t even be a scoop!”

His eyes are hurting, unshed tears stinging behind his eyelids, but he’s not about to let Fassone see that. He’s never been fond of showing his feelings around people outside of the very narrow group of friends and family he truly trusts. His newest supervisor will never be part of that group.

“You need to be reasonable. Not everything is about you: you should think about what your selfishness will do to your teammates. Do you really want to drag them into this?”

“I’m sick and tired of being called selfish!” Riccardo snaps. Never mind it is usually only Riccardo who calls himself that. “What’s so fucking selfish about me wanting to be with someone I love and still being able to do my job?”

He drops the crumbled paper back on the desk, clenching and unclenching his fists in attempt to calm himself down. “What’s changed, really? I’ve always been gay, it’s not some new development. Hell, I’ve been _with Cesare_ longer than I’ve been in this club, and half the squad knows it already!”

“You’re acting like _this_ ,” Fassone picks up the paper and shakes it for good measure, “doesn’t change anything. Like it isn’t going to bring out all the worst people and bad tongues. Like _this_ going public tonight won’t disrupt the serenity of the whole team.”

Riccardo swallows around the piece that’s stuck in his throat. It won’t be long before he won’t be able to hold back the tears anymore.

“It shouldn’t be like this,” he whispers in a strangled voice. “It shouldn’t matter.”

Fassone is done playing. He pushes the paper back toward Riccardo, like a reminder of what’s to come, all the discomfort or sympathy gone from his voice when he informs him, “Tough luck, because it _does_ matter. And as your superior I can’t let you do that to my club.”

“But it’s _my club_ too,” Riccardo says quietly, but he picks up the paper from the table nonetheless, straightening the crumbles until he can see the hurtful words again.

It’s all too familiar to him, the way the article is worded: the press never attacks the _being gay_ part directly, it finds other ways to tar their relationship: the lies, the age difference, the power imbalance— after Cesare’s book came out, they ever dared to suggest Cesare was disrespecting the memory of Manuela simply by loving a man.

All the fight is gone from his demeanour, though, because Fassone’s words have reminded him of the fact he’s known all along: this is a fight he’s not going to win.

He walks away from Fassone’s office in Casa Milan without looking back. He’s doing it more for his own benefit than Fassone’s, desperate to hold onto the last shreds of his pride.

 

 

 

(That night, Riccardo will cry bitter tears – ugly tears, eyes red and swollen, nose runny – his blotchy face buried in Cesare’s tight embrace.

For many days to come, Cesare will carefully monitor all of Riccardo’s online activity, because he knows Riccardo’s sick curiosity will get the better of him, and he _will_ look what’s being said about them.

And once Riccardo does, he will cry again; because despite all his negativity, Riccardo still can’t stop himself from hoping something would be different this time around – that somehow, this time there would be more people on their side.)


	29. Best day ever

_“You should come to the match. Bring Cesare too, let them see you together. You know hiding’s not gonna fix anything, right?”_

 

Riccardo doesn’t quite agree with Igna’s sentiments – hiding’s been the only way for them to get any peace and quiet ever since their relationship became public knowledge – but he finds himself in San Siro that Sunday anyways, sitting in the stands with Cesare.

It’s the first home game of the season, against Cagliari.

They’re in the VIP stands, mostly surrounded by family members of the other Milan players, but Riccardo can tell even without looking that there’s also reporters and cameramen following their every move. So far, most of the people around them have left them alone, but Riccardo knows that doesn’t mean they won’t be on the frontpage of every tabloid come tomorrow.

Fassone had had the audacity to tell Riccardo not to come to the game, but Riccardo is fed up doing what other people expect of him. If his career is over because his club management refuses to move to this century, then he’s not about to sit back and go down quietly.

He has been training in Milanello all this time, after that one week of forced leave – though it’s mostly been individual work, away from the first team, and he’s yet to get called up, no doubt more due to the club management’s decision that the coach’s.

He feels useless, in a way he’s never felt before. Being stripped of the captaincy is nothing new – he’s went through that once before with Fiorentina – but the utter lack of responsibility and hiding behind closed gym doors is eating him up. Even with Fiorentina, he was still being called up to play, because the _team_ had wanted him there, even if the management didn’t.

Bonucci is the new captain. Riccardo can’t really find it in himself to be jealous, because the Milan captaincy has always been more of a burden to him than anything he’d dreamed of growing up.

He just wishes he could _be there_ when the team marches to the pitch.

“Are you holding up okay, Riccardo?” Cesare asks quietly, his lips so close to Riccardo’s ear he can almost feel the warm breath against his skin.

“Not really,” Riccardo replies sullenly, but he leans his head against Cesare’s shoulder anyways to assure him he will be, in good time. “I miss it, Cesare. I miss it so much. And it’s only been two months.”

He half-expects Cesare to tell him it’s going to get better, but Cesare only kisses his temple and focuses his attention on the match unfolding on the pitch. He realizes belatedly he’s thankful to Cesare for not saying anything, because right now, it really doesn’t feel like it’s ever going to get better.

All he needs from Cesare right now is for him to stay next to him – that’s at least something positive in this situation: they don’t need to hide their relationship anymore, after seven long years of lying to everyone.

Cesare takes a hold of Riccardo’s hand with both of his and pulls it into his lap. It’s the best comfort he can offer, and also the best kind of ‘fuck you’ to the Milan management for trying to force Riccardo back into the closet.

He finds himself forgetting his sulkiness when Cutrone scores the first goal only ten minutes into the game, and Riccardo jumps up with the rest of the crowd and throws his arms around Cesare’s neck with a triumphant laugh.

Then something happens he would never have expected, not in a million years: Cutrone has jogged to the bench and someone – Locatelli, Riccardo will later find out when re-watching the scene on TV – throws him a red and black jersey that the striker spreads out in celebration of his goal, Riccardo’s name and number out there for everyone to see.

“ _What?_ ” Riccardo gasps out, not loud, only meant for Cesare to hear, but he can feel many more eyes on him. “How— Why— he _can’t_ do that, can he?”

But Cutrone only kisses the batch on Riccardo’s jersey and points a knowing finger towards the stands where he must know their seats are. _It doesn’t make any sense._

“Why would he—” Riccardo’s voice breaks, and he realizes there are tears running down his face only when Cesare lifts his hand to wipe them away.

“Because they _miss you too_ ,” Cesare whispers, kissing away the last tears on his cheeks, “and they want you to know they don’t agree with what the club’s doing to you. They want you to know you’re not alone.”

Riccardo laughs even through the tears and kisses Cesare quickly, just a brief brush of lips, not caring if they’re on camera.

The match continues, and Milan claims their first home win of the season, but none of the papers will talk about that come next morning.

Instead, the tabloids and the social media alike will be filled with different kind of quotes:

_“We miss you, Monto!”_

_“Come back soon, Ricky!”_

_“Still one of us, Captain!”_

Riccardo might cry again in the privacy of their home, cuddled safely in Cesare’s arms in their bed. But this time, they’re tears of happiness and relief.

When he joins the first team for training two days later, for the first time in over two months, he can’t remember ever feeling as accepted, and by so many people at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably see I've abandoned the real life timeline -- for obvious reasons -- and made the situation more of what it's like for Monto right now with Milan. Why yes, I'm salty as fuck.
> 
> Also, if you thought even for a moment I would let my bae Patrick be part of that homophobic shit show, you probably have never met me. My Primavera babies are gonna fuck some shit up for this Milan management until Monto is free to love whoever the fuck he pleases (and that's Cesare, obviously).
> 
> Oh, and a little disclaimer on that vein: I'm not saying Fassone is a homophobe, or the previous Milan management in general. What I _am_ saying, is that I think every single club management in Italy would do the same if one of their players came out, and the federation would do nothing to stop it, because that's how the institution run by old white hetero men works. There, I said it. Thanks for reading.


	30. Future

“Just relax. All you need to do is act normally and everyone will love you. Don’t overthink it.”

Cesare’s words make no difference, of course, because if there’s one thing Riccardo is _spectacular_ at, it’s overthinking everything.

It’s the first joint interview they have ever done, and Riccardo is feeling jittery, to say the least.

He knows there’s no need to be nervous: he’s met the lady interviewing them before, he’s seen the list of questions in advance, there’s a whole team of cameramen and editors making sure nothing unwanted or too personal goes out of the room. But still, he can’t help but freak out a little inwardly.

It’s part of a wider TV documentary sponsored by Arcigay, in promotion of the upcoming Pride Month. Riccardo and Cesare were specifically invited as the first LGBTQ people in men’s football, to give faces to the problems still plaguing Serie A.

It’s been almost a year since Cesare’s book came out, and he’s still out of job. He’s not even invited to comment on the matches anymore, like the TV channels are afraid of losing viewership by having someone not-straight™ on air.

He’s made the best of the situation, though, cooperating with Arcigay to expose the issues in the Italian federation, trying crumble the system of discrimination in Serie A from inside out.

Sometimes Riccardo remembers how Cesare used to talk about wanting to make the difference, and he couldn’t be prouder of his partner for actually doing it.

Riccardo is still getting jeered at by the fans – the opposing team’s and his own – and he’s still finding it hard to get consistent minutes of playing time with Milan, but at least he’s _playing_. After having been frozen out of the squad for a few months, he’s learned to appreciate all the small things he can get.

Cesare’s presence by his side is a constant reminder of what he’s gained by sacrificing his privacy and his career in the top flight of football. It’s all the reminder he needs to realize he’d never take it back, even if he could.

It still surprises him that he can kiss Cesare goodbye outside their apartment building before he heads out to Milanello, or simply hold his hand while they’re in public, uncaring of the curious gazes.

“They’re going to ask about same sex marriage,” Riccardo comments when the make-up guy puts in the final touches of powder on their faces. His mouth feels dry beyond belief; he knows it is nervousness and not thirst that’s making him feel like this, but he still grabs for the closest water bottle on the table. He fumbles with the top for a while, until Cesare takes a pity on him and opens the bottle for him. “What’re you gonna say about that?”

“The truth?” Cesare’s answer comes out more like a question of its own.

Riccardo licks his lips nervously and gulps down a few mouthfuls of water. They haven’t talked about marriage, or their future in general, which makes him curious to know what the _truth_ really is.

Cesare’s hand is resting on the small of Riccardo’s back, strong and reassuring. He’s kept the promise he made when he first came out: he’s always been there for Riccardo, lending his strength whenever Riccardo is feeling it’s all too much for him.

Cesare presses his lips against Riccardo’s ear, the words meant only for him. “I’ll have you know, I have every intention of marrying you, Riccardo. But only when we’re both ready for it— even if the world isn’t.”

Riccardo’s face must be beet red, because the make-up guy is back immediately, with more powder and a berating word. His heartbeat sounds too loud in his own ears and he’s suddenly hyperaware of how low on his waist Cesare’s hand is resting.

At least he’s not thinking about the interview anymore.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he whines quietly as they’re led to the interviewer’s couch. “You know I hate surprises. You can’t just throw stuff like that at me without a warning.”

“Is it really that surprising to you?” Cesare asks, an indulgent smile on his lips. It’s the face of a man who knows exactly what he’s done, even if he will never admit it. “I would’ve thought I’ve made my intentions completely clear. Do I need to get an honest-to-god ring for you to get the hint?”

Riccardo wishes he could kiss Cesare, as the interviewer sits in her own armchair and the cameramen take their places.

Then he remembers that he _can_. No one can stop him from kissing Cesare anymore. So, he does, a short and sweet kiss that leaves a fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach, even after eight years together.

“Let’s talk about this when we get home,” he whispers to Cesare when he pulls back, holding his gaze a moment too long, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips. “Don’t even think I’ll let you get away with a shoddy proposal like that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.” Cesare rests his hand on Riccardo’s knee – casual, like it belongs there – and it remains there for the whole duration of the interview.


End file.
